


Strangers on a Bus

by Terene



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Accountant!Castiel, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Christmas, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mechanic!Dean Winchester, Pining, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terene/pseuds/Terene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is flummoxed.  This is a social situation he is <i>not</i> equipped to handle.  What is the protocol when the stranger sitting next to you on a bus, whom you incidentally find very attractive, falls asleep with his head on your shoulder?</p>
<p>2/14/16:  Now with lovely art by the talented purgatoryjar!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My intention was to have this completely written and either completely or mostly posted by Christmas, since it's vaguely Christmas-themed. But between unexpected houseguests, my mom and me getting sick, and enough baking to land me a role in a bakery AU, it didn't happen. Such is life.
> 
> I don't make a habit of posting incomplete things (since I know and don't trust my own past writing habits), but this is completely plotted out and shouldn't end up too lengthy. So instead of posting none of it by Christmas, I thought I'd venture out on the proverbial limb and post the first part. If all goes as planned, there should be around five chapters total. The rating is for later installments.
> 
> So without further ado, here's some Destiel fluff for Christmas. Enjoy!
> 
> Addendum: You can find me on tumblr as terene, where I may occasionally post progress updates.
> 
> Art by the talented [purgatoryjar](http://purgatoryjar.tumblr.com/).

Snow is just beginning to fall as Castiel Novak takes his seat on the 14th Street line. He rubs his hands together absently, glad to get out of the cold and into the relative warmth of the bus. One day he's going to actually learn to drive and get a car of his own, he thinks (not for the first time) as he settles into one of the few empty seats. He hadn't relished the frigid wait at the stop, and he's lucky he got a seat at all. The holiday season is in full swing, and all the city's public transit has been overrun with shoppers and merrymakers. Perhaps the weather kept some of them in tonight, he reflects. All the better.

It's not that Castiel exactly dislikes Christmas; in fact, it had once been quite the opposite. It's just that he no longer has anyone to celebrate it with. Gabriel is off to who-knows-where—his journalism career takes him across the globe—and without Anna to get them all together, Gabriel's communication has dropped off almost entirely. Castiel got a postcard from Morocco two days ago with a generic Christmas greeting and a "miss ya, bro" thrown in for good measure, but Castiel isn't fooled. Gabriel doesn't want to see him, or he would be here. Castiel knows it's nothing personal, but it still hurts.

It's been three years since Anna…well, it hasn't gotten any easier, not really.

The bus grinds to a halt at its next stop, and Castiel shivers as a blast of cold air sweeps in with the new passengers. Snow swirls in the doorway, sparkling as it catches the light. An overweight and greasy fifty-something man lumbers toward the back, ignoring the open seat beside Castiel, for which Castiel is grateful, though he feels instantly guilty for the unkind thought. An elderly woman and a teenaged girl settle in the two empty seats across from Castiel.

Just as the door is starting to close, a hand grabs it and shoves it back open. The driver huffs in annoyance at the offending straggler, and a shit-eating grin appears on the face of the most attractive man Castiel has seen in a long time.

He's tall—probably six feet or more, broad-shouldered but lean with long, slightly bowed legs. His short, sandy brown hair might have been artfully spiked at one point, but the rapidly melting snow clinging to it weighs it down. Castiel is treated to a glimpse of hypnotic green eyes set in features somehow both delicate and masculine as the man heads straight for the seat beside Castiel.

The grin disappears as quickly as it appeared, and the expression remaining on the man's face is blank and closed off, but his eyes betray a weariness that Castiel guesses goes beyond the physical. Castiel feels a sudden, inexplicable desire to comfort him, to take him in his arms and hold him until those lines, too old for such a young face, smooth away.

Castiel laughs ruefully at himself. He must be truly, pathetically lonely if he's reached the point of craving empathetic contact with random (albeit beautiful) strangers on buses. Castiel banishes the feeling with disdain.

All the same…it can't hurt to make small talk with the man, can it? The finer points of social protocols may never have been Castiel's forte, but he can handle that much, surely.

But the opportunity is lost, or rather it never comes, because the man gives an obligatory nod in Castiel's direction as he sits down, then he immediately crosses his arms and closes his eyes.

Castiel curses to himself. Typical. There's a reason he's still single—hell, still a virgin—at thirty-one, and it's not (no matter what Gabriel might say were he here) due solely to Castiel's own reticence. He just has unusually bad luck.

With a resigned sigh, Castiel pulls out a small book from the depths of his trench coat's pockets. He might as well read to pass the next half hour or so to his stop, like he usually does. No sense in moping after a random pretty face. The guy is probably straight anyway.

It takes a few minutes to focus, but Castiel finally becomes engrossed in his book, so much so that he doesn't notice his neighbor's breathing even out in slumber. He _does_ notice a weight land on his shoulder. When he lifts his head and turns in response, his nose brushes damp hair. He jumps a little, startled, but it's not enough to jostle his companion awake.

Castiel is flummoxed. This is a social situation he is _not_ equipped to handle. What is the protocol when the stranger sitting next to you on a bus, whom you incidentally find very attractive, falls asleep with his head on your shoulder?

He feels his cheeks heat up as he notices a couple people eying him from across the aisle, and he supposes he should wake the man. But he remembers the tired look on the man's face, and something in him melts just a little. His companion must really need the rest. A tender hint of a smile softens his eyes as he continues to look at the handsome face, gone slack with sleep. Their sudden proximity gives Castiel an intimate view of long lashes fluttering against cheeks dusted with pale freckles. He swallows.

It would be unkind to wake him when he's so tired, right? He's not bothering Castiel, not really, and he's probably more comfortable like this than he would be otherwise. Yes, Castiel will just let him have his rest for a little while.

A titter breaks out across from him, the teenaged girl the culprit, and Castiel tips his chin up just a bit and meets her gaze defiantly. She sobers immediately and looks down at her lap. Let it never be said that Castiel Novak is anything but steadfast in his decisions.

Castiel sits stiffly, hardly daring to breathe. He's not sure if that's from a genuine desire not to awaken the sleeper, or if it's from nerves at sharing such familiar space (however accidental) with someone he finds so attractive.

Okay, so maybe Castiel is a little smitten. It's been long enough since someone caught his interest at all; he's entitled.

About twenty minutes pass in this way, with Castiel barely moving a muscle. The stranger hasn't stirred; his breathing is deep and rhythmic. Castiel's own stop is only a few minutes away, and he realizes he's going to have to wake his companion.

He also realizes they're the only two people left on the bus, and he's almost always the only one that rides the bus this far out.

A horrible feeling of guilt settles in his stomach. The stranger probably slept through his stop, and it's all Castiel's fault for not waking him.

Well, there's nothing for it. Castiel steels himself, then reaches across the man's body to gently shake his opposite shoulder.

The stranger jerks upright and furrows his brow, momentarily disoriented. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, then as he turns toward Castiel his eyes widen with dawning clarity.

"Son of a bitch," he says. "Was I sleeping? Like, on you?"

"Yes," says Castiel honestly.

"Damn it. Jeez, listen man, I'm sorry. It's been a hell of a day, and I don't usually ride the bus—"

Castiel holds out a placating hand. "No, no no no, don't apologize. It's quite all right. It was my pleasure," Castiel says, because today is apparently the day to actually be the creeper Gabriel jokingly accuses him of being when he wears his trench coat. He winces mentally.

"O…kay," the stranger says with a dubious expression.

"That…didn't come out quite right," Castiel says. "I only meant that you looked very tired, and I hated to wake you. But I might need to apologize, because it's only just occurred to me that you might have slept through your stop. Unless you were wanting to get off at Taylor?"

"No, I needed to get off at Second. Wait, how long was I asleep?"

"Probably twenty or twenty-five minutes," Castiel says, somewhat sheepishly.

"Son of a _bitch,"_ the stranger says again.

"I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's not your fault I'm an idiot and fell asleep. So, can I just take this same bus back?"

"You can, but it doesn't go straight back. It loops around." Castiel glances at his watch. "And you just missed the one running the other way." The stranger groans, and a sudden idea comes to Castiel. He doesn't pause to examine his motives but instead barrels ahead with the suggestion. "Look, I feel just terrible about this. My house is only a couple blocks from here. Please let me call you a cab, and I'll make you some coffee or something while you wait."

"Thanks, man, but that's totally not necessary. Don't worry about it."

"But I am worried about it," Castiel says frankly as the bus pulls up to the stop. He stands, but he turns back to give his companion a look of earnest entreaty. "Please. I'd feel much better knowing you've gotten some caffeine in you and are being delivered straight to your destination."

The stranger laughs suddenly, and it changes his whole demeanor; if he was beautiful before, he's doubly so now. There's something of relief to the sound as well, as though the man has had little about which to laugh in recent days and is seizing the opportunity with abandon. Castiel has a wild thought that he wants to make him laugh as often as possible. "So, I need looking after, huh? Well, when you put it that way, I guess I'd better come."

The driver clears his throat, glaring at them in the rear-view mirror, and Castiel only now notices the cold draft sweeping through the bus. The stranger immediately stands and follows Castiel to the exit. Once outside, Castiel turns up his collar and shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Holy _crap_ it's cold," the stranger exclaims, easily matching Castiel's brisk pace.

"And wet," Castiel agrees.

"I'm Dean, by the way. Thought you might want to know the name of the guy you were snuggling with."

Castiel stops in his tracks. "I didn't snuggle with you, Dean," he says soberly, alarmed that Dean might think he took liberties.

"…It was a joke, dude.''

"…Oh."

Dean laughs again, and Castiel is pleased despite his embarrassment. "I didn't actually think there was any unsolicited snuggling going on," Dean says as they resume walking. "You know, aside from me using you as a pillow."

"I didn't mind."

"Yeah, you said that," Dean points out, amusement still in his voice.

Castiel hadn't needed the reminder. He stares straight ahead, wondering when he had become so transparent and clumsy. At least this time his wording hadn't made him sound like a pervert.

"Okay, let's try this again," Dean says, thankfully letting the other subject drop. "I'm Dean, and you're…?"

"Castiel."

"Castiel," Dean enunciates, testing it out.

"Yes."

"Mouthful. Foreign?"

"Esoteric," Castiel corrects.

"Huh?"

"It's the name of an angel in some obscure religious and pseudo-religious texts. Theophorically speaking, it means "shield of God." That sort of thing was a particular interest of my parents."

"Huh," Dean says, obviously a little bemused by the terminology, to Castiel's private amusement. "I was just named after my grandmother, so nothing quite so interesting over here."

"That may not be as interesting as mine, but it's more meaningful," Castiel assures him sincerely, feeling—quite illogically—personally offended that Dean would minimize anything about himself. Then another thought occurs to him. "Wait, your grandmother was named Dean?" he asks, furrowing his brow.

Dean snorts. "Deanna, actually. My brother Sam is named after my grandfather."

They've arrived at Castiel's home, a two-bedroom mid-century Cape Cod with a modest yard. Castiel unlocks the door and beckons Dean inside.

"Nice place," Dean says.

It _is_ a nice place. Castiel has been working to renovate the house little by little since he purchased it six years ago. He's finished the major renovations—knocking out the walls between the kitchen and the living room to create an open floor plan, gutting the bathrooms and the kitchen and putting in all new appliances, countertops, and fixtures. The front door opens into a small entry with a knee wall between it and the living room, which is furnished comfortably in a classic style with the occasional quirky touch, like the oversized, nest-like round chair with its pile of mismatched pillows in the corner by the fireplace. He still has a few aesthetic accents he'd like to add, and he has done nothing to the guest bedroom beyond filling it with basic furniture when he'd moved in.

He's saved the spare bedroom for last, because despite his optimistic visions of it one day hosting frequent guests, the reality is that in the past three years it has sat empty save for two brief visits from Gabriel. Anna had visited often.

"Thank you," Castiel says, feeling a little like a proud parent. "And thank you for coming."

Dean gives him a searching look, shaking his head a little. "You're a weird one, you know that? You're the one going out of your way to be nice to me, and here you're thanking me. You trying to get in my pants or something?" He says it with a smile, so it doesn't sound like an accusation, but Castiel's eyes widen all the same.

"No! I mean, well, I— _no."_ Castiel shakes his head firmly, half to reinforce his statement to Dean, and half to convince himself of its truth. He _is_ interested, but that's not the point of this. And he doesn't want a one night stand. He's always sought something more meaningful than that. He brought Dean here out of kindness, as an apology for his oversight, not out of any selfish agenda. Right?

He feels his cheeks warm, but Dean is the first to break their eye contact. He shuffles from one foot to the other and scratches absently at the back of his head. "Hey, I was just teasing, but just so you know, I, uh, I don't swing that way."

Castiel would say that wasn't a crushing disappointment, but he'd be lying.

"It's fine, Dean," he says, knowing full well that he's deflecting, but maybe saying it will make it true. "That wasn't why I brought you here."

"So why did you, really? 'Cause I gotta say, most people wouldn't invite a stranger home with them just because he fell asleep on them."

Castiel doesn't know how to answer that question, so he tries for levity. "Well, as you said, you were using my shoulder as a pillow for half an hour. I suppose I got a little attached."

Dean chuckles and shakes his head again, his expression an odd mixture of amusement, incredulity, and (if Castiel didn't know better) something almost akin to fondness. But Dean doesn't pursue the subject any further. Instead, he asks, "How 'bout that coffee, Cas?"

 _Cas?_ Did Dean just give him a nickname? Technically it's a little rude of him to be so presumptive, but Castiel doesn't care in the slightest, not when Dean's mouth tugs up at one corner as he drawls it out, warm and familiar in a way it shouldn't sound after so brief an acquaintance.

Castiel has never been Cas to anyone before, and now he wonders why. It seems such an obvious shortening. He was Castiel to his father and his schoolmates, he's Novak to his coworkers, and he was occasionally Cassie to Anna and still is often to Gabriel (and is perpetually to one particularly impudent coworker). Perhaps Cas is a name belonging to someone he's not.

Cas is a name intended for overuse, suitable for yelling across a house to ask the whereabouts of a wayward pair of socks or a misplaced magazine. It's a name to be slurred as the drunken friend throws lax limbs around its owner, a name to be ground out in the familiar frustration of an oft-rehashed argument. It's a name to be called to say breakfast is ready, a name to be protracted by the wheedling friend in need of a favor, a name to be cried out in the throes of pleasure. It's a name to be invoked in urgent appeal for advice in a crisis, a name to be mumbled drowsily into the darkness of the early hours while pressing in closer.

Cas is the name of someone who is friendly and approachable, someone down-to-earth and loving and savvy. It's the name of someone who is cherished.

Castiel thinks he'd like nothing more than to be this Cas.

He's so distracted by those three letters that it takes him a moment to register the rest of what Dean had said. Dean's eyebrows are raised at him expectantly before he finally jumps into action.

"Yes, of course," Castiel says, bustling away from the entry where they'd been standing toward the kitchen at the rear of the house. "Sit down wherever you'd like," he calls over his shoulder. "Please make yourself at home."

Dean doesn't sit but instead wanders around the room, poking into things without a worry for his nosiness. Castiel watches him over the breakfast bar while measuring out the coffee and turning on the pot. Dean runs his fingers over the spines of the books on the shelves, tilting his head a little as he reads the titles. He advances from there to the round chair and flops down in it. He's instantly half-swallowed by all the pillows.

"Hey Cas, I bet you curl up in this with a book just like a baby bird in a nest, don't you?" Dean smirks at him.

"I'm not a baby bird, Dean," Castiel says primly. He _does_ curl up in the chair to read—quite often, in fact—and has even fallen asleep like that on several occasions, but all that's entirely irrelevant.

"Whatever you say, Big Bird."

"Big Bird isn't a baby either. He's supposed to be six years old, although the character has been around since the sixties."

"Shut up," Dean points a finger at him in mock sternness, his grin giving him away. "And I'm not even gonna ask how the hell you know that."

"I have a good memory," Castiel mumbles, feeling a little defensive, and he turns to retrieve mugs from the cabinet and hide his face.

He dares a look again in a minute, and he finds Dean hasn't moved. "This is actually pretty comfortable," Dean muses.

Castiel chuckles. "You'd better get up, or you're going to fall asleep again."

"You're right." With obvious reluctance, Dean heaves himself out of the chair (never an easy thing, since it's so deep and cushiony). He saunters over to the fireplace. "Hey, you've got a real fireplace rather than one of those lame-ass gas ones."

"Yes. It's a lot more work to keep clean, but it's worth it. You may light a fire if you'd like. There's some wood on the back porch if there's not enough there, and there should be some matches and a starter block on the hearth."

"Sweet," Dean says, and he immediately opens the screen and takes stock of the supplies. "Hey, you don't have stuff for s'mores, do you?"

Castiel scrunches up his face. "I don't know what those are."

Dean is walking toward the French doors that open onto the porch, but he stops in his tracks beside the refrigerator and turns toward Castiel with exaggerated outrage on his face. "Seriously, dude? Graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallows? Put 'em on a stick and hold 'em over the fire until they're nothing but gooey goodness?"

"No, but those do sound delicious."

"They're the freakin' best, man."

Dean ducks outside and is back in a second with the logs. As he's arranging them, the coffee pot beeps to say it's done.

"How do you take your coffee?" Castiel asks as he pours the mugs.

"Black," says Dean.

Castiel doctors his own coffee, then he carries the mugs over to the coffee table and sets Dean's on a coaster. He settles himself on the L-shaped sofa just as the fire starts crackling.

Dean rises from his crouch with a satisfied look and brushes his hands on his pants. He joins Castiel on the couch and goes to reach for his mug, but he freezes suddenly. "Holy crap," he says.

"What is it?" Castiel asks in consternation.

"This mug."

Castiel follows Dean's gaze to the mug still sitting on the table. He colors. He had been so flustered earlier that he hadn't paid attention to what he was grabbing.

"I can explain," he says quickly. "See, my brother—"

"Cas," Dean says, ignoring Castiel's fumbling excuses. "You watch Dr. Sexy?"

The mug in question features two images: On one side there's a silhouette of a shaggy-headed figure in a lab coat, and the text beneath it says, "The doctor will see you now." On the other side is a picture of a pair of cowboy boots and the text "Oh, Dr. Sexy!" with little hearts around it. It's awful and cheesy and tacky and highly incriminating.

"It's very compelling," Castiel defends feebly, giving his remaining dignity up for lost.

"Right?" Dean asks rhetorically, his enthusiasm bubbling over. "That's what I always say!" He seizes the mug and turns it around in his hands, nodding his approval at the design. He then sips from it with relish, as though the vigor with which he drinks the contents might pay homage to the vessel.

Castiel gapes at him, unsure of what just happened. That was the antithesis of the reaction he had expected.

"I like how they put the boots on here," Dean comments. "After all, the boots—"

"Are what make Dr. Sexy sexy," Castiel finishes, in something of a fog.

"Exactly!" Dean exclaims, and then they both laugh at the absurdity of it.

And that's it; Castiel's gone. Why oh why does this gorgeous, warm, and funny man have to be straight?

  
  


From there they fall easily into conversation, first talking about the melodramas of Dr. Sexy and the many nurses in his life, and from there progressing to general facts about themselves. Castiel tells Dean about his job in a mid-sized accounting firm downtown, and Dean tells him he's a mechanic with his own small business, specializing in classic rebuilds when he can manage to take them on. Dean practically gushes about his own '67 Chevy Impala, but a shadow passes over his countenance when he mentions that "she" is currently out of commission until he has the time and the money to fix her. He offers no further details, and Castiel doesn't pry, although he longs to know what sadness weighs on this man's heart.

Castiel talks about his family, about the mother he never knew and the father who was never home, about the twin elder brothers whose feuding eventually drove the middle brother to leave, about the sister, now lost, who soon after went her own way as well. Castiel had finally cut ties with the others too, or perhaps they had with him, deeming him guilty of the same crimes of disloyalty as Gabriel and Anna, by association if not actuality.

He even talks about the interrupted home invasion and the hastily fired bullet that left Anna dead on the kitchen floor in her own home and Castiel grieving his closest sibling. The way Dean looks at him through that particular story is not pity, but something far closer to true understanding. Castiel wonders if he too has known grief.

Dean doesn't talk about his family beyond mentioning a younger brother in law school in California. Dean speaks of his brother with obvious pride and affection, but there's something else there too, like the memory of an old hurt, that Dean is clearly trying to keep at bay.

Despite these occasional forays into serious or sensitive subjects, the conversation is still, as a whole, relaxed and comfortable. They've barely known each other for any time at all, but Castiel feels at ease with Dean like he has never felt with anyone but his closer siblings, and perhaps even more so.

This is not to say that they are always on the same page; in fact, quite the opposite is true. Dean makes jokes and references that Castiel doesn't get and laughs at his expense, though not unkindly. Castiel occasionally rambles about something on a technical or philosophical level using vocabulary that causes Dean's eyes to glaze over a little—a product of a formal, heavily tutored upbringing. But despite all this, Castiel feels as though they are in sync on a level that runs just beneath the surface—molecular, spiritual, whatever you want to call it—but organic and effortless and _right._

When Dean gets up to throw another log on the fire, Castiel (whose eyes might or might not have followed Dean's movement with appreciation) happens to glance at the clock on the mantle. What Castiel had thought was surely no more than twenty or thirty minutes was, in fact, over an hour and a half, and it's now going on eight o'clock.

It's the most pleasant couple hours Castiel has spent in another's company since Anna died, and Castiel finds himself wishing it didn't have to end. If only that damned cab would never come!

…The cab.

He never called the cab! His subconscious seems bound and determined to make a fool of him today.

"Dean, I'm so sorry," he begins.

Dean pivots in his crouch by the hearth to look at him, puzzled. "For what?"

"I just realized I never called the cab. You probably have things to do, and here I—"

Dean's sudden laughter cuts Castiel off. "I know you didn't, Cas. It's fine."

"Why didn't you tell me then?" Castiel asks, incredulous. A warm thought that maybe Dean wanted to stay as much as Castiel wants him to creeps into his mind, but he doesn't dare pursue it.

"Maybe I didn't want to," Dean says, and Castiel's heart does a flip. "This has been fun." He grins at Castiel, but when Castiel does nothing but stare at him like the embodiment of social grace he is, Dean's confidence seems to falter. "Oh, hell, you, uh, you probably had stuff to do too, huh? And you probably haven't eaten. So we can call the cab now, and I'll be out of your hair in no time at all."

Castiel doesn't want him out of his hair. Actually, he thinks he might want to keep him forever. He smiles. "Dean."

"Yeah?"

"How does spaghetti sound?"

Dean looks at him blankly for a moment as he processes the question, but then he beams. "I'll make the garlic bread."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long this took. It ran away with me, and I finally decided to split it. So the good news is that the next chapter is halfway written already. Enjoy!
> 
> Art by the talented [purgatoryjar](http://purgatoryjar.tumblr.com/).

Dean moves around Castiel's kitchen like he was born to be there, knowing instinctively where everything is. He moves with a confidence that his speech doesn't always possess, sure and calculated and surprisingly elegant. Castiel isn't sure which reveals more about his true nature.

Castiel is pleased to discover that the synchronicity and ease in which he had reveled when they were talking carries over to silences and activity as well. Dean is someone he'd like to have his back in battle. They anticipate each other's moves naturally, never standing in each other's way, handing over a needed item without it being verbally requested.

Nonetheless, Castiel has never been the world's greatest cook, and tonight, with the distraction of Dean orbiting around him (or perhaps Castiel is the one doing the orbiting), Castiel is clumsier and more faltering than he would normally be. He's chopping tomatoes for the sauce when he manages to slice his hand.

"Fuck," he says—a knee-jerk reaction.

Dean swivels toward him, and upon the sight of the blood streaming steadily from Castiel's palm, he seems to go into a sort of triage mode. Immediately he grabs a paper towel from the roll and douses it under the faucet, then he presses it against the wound and guides Castiel's uninjured hand to hold it in place.

"You have a first-aid kit?" he asks.

Castiel is, of course, perfectly capable of dealing with his injury himself; he's not squeamish, and his momentary stupefaction was rather out of embarrassment and disbelief at his own incompetence in front of this man he feels an illogical and rather uncharacteristic urge to impress. But if Dean wants to play nurse, then Castiel won't stop him.

In fact, Castiel's pretty sure it's the sweetest gesture anyone's made toward him in a long time.

"In my bathroom," he says. "Through the bedroom. Down the hall, only door on the right. It should be under the sink."

Dean's gone in an instant and back in a minute. With no hesitance whatsoever he takes hold of Castiel's hand, pulling the paper towel away. He looks at the cut critically.

"You're in luck," he declares. "It's not deep enough for alcohol. Let's just get it under some cool water here and clean it off with a little soap, then we'll bandage it up."

He proceeds to do just that, tugging Castiel along with him to the sink and then back to the first aid supplies. Castiel lets him. Dean takes charge as though he's dealt with injuries on a daily basis for most of his life; Castiel wonders if he's had some sort of medical training, or if perhaps Dean has done military service. Neither of those seems quite right, though.

Dean's eyes are focused downward as he applies gauze and medical tape to Castiel's palm—the cut is too long for a basic band-aid. Castiel takes this opportunity to examine his companion's face undetected, now that it's bathed in the warm yellow light of Castiel's home rather than the harsh, intermittent light of the bus. From this angle, the long lashes veil the green of Dean's eyes, but his pale freckles stand out even more now that his cheeks are not pink with cold. There's a little furrow in his brow just above the fine, straight slope of his nose, and he's pulled the perfect bow of his lower lip between his teeth in concentration. Castiel can't help but smile, utterly charmed.

Dean smooths his finger over the last piece of tape, and Castiel almost hates to break the spell of the moment by speaking. "Thank you, Dean," he intones lowly.

Dean looks up at the sound, some teasing response visible in the quirk of his mouth, but it dies on his lips as their gazes lock. Instantly everything else fades into the background, and it's impossible to look away, as though some impish conjurer has cast a spell of hypnosis on the both of them with one snap of his fingers. For one suspenseful, breathless moment, Castiel thinks that, for all his claims of disinterest, Dean is going to kiss him. He feels the gravitational pull that has them leaning closer, millimeter by millimeter; he sees Dean's eyes dart down to his lips, once, twice.

But then Dean shakes himself and stands abruptly, busying his hands with repacking the kit. The moment is gone like it had never happened, leaving Castiel to wonder if it had at all.

"No problem," Dean says, not turning to face him. "Just be careful from now on, okay? I can patch up a cut, but I can't do anything about lopped-off fingers."

  


The awkwardness has vanished by the time Dean returns from putting the kit away, and they finish making dinner with no further mishaps. They forgo the table and eat instead at the breakfast bar, side by side, their shoulders brushing now and again, sending an inconvenient chill down Castiel's arm _every damn time._ He admonishes himself to get it together.

The conversation over the meal is relaxed and lighthearted. Castiel talks about the renovations he made to the house, and Dean asks intelligent questions, some of which Castiel is unsure how to answer. Castiel is capable and a quick learner, so he tackled some of the work himself, but the majority of the more complex or specialized projects he hired out. From the sound of it, there would have been very little Dean would not have been able to do himself, and Castiel is impressed by his handiness.

Toward the end of the meal, however, Dean's joviality begins to slip. It's a subtle shift, but Castiel glimpses a somber expression on Dean's face out of the corner of his eye a couple times. Dean does his best to mask it, but Castiel seems unusually attuned to this man's moods—strange, considering they were no more than strangers a couple of hours ago.

Dean sets his fork in his empty plate and turns to him. "Dessert?" he asks, his tone light, but Castiel is certain what he's really asking is, _I don't have to go home now, do I?_ Castiel peers intently into Dean's eyes, wishing the eyes really were a window to the soul and that he could see the colors of it, raw and bleeding, perhaps, but vibrant and beautiful and _alive._ He wishes he could read the measure of the man like words on a page. The limits of human senses, even intuition and instinct, are great.  People blunder blindly around each other's feelings; even the best intentions can cut like a sword in the dark. But how wonderful a thing when two people can live on the same wavelength, can understand each other fundamentally, like two halves of a whole. Castiel thinks that, given time, he and Dean could be such a pair.

When Dean doesn't blanch from his gaze, Castiel feels emboldened enough to speak frankly.

"Dean, what are you hiding from?" he asks, his voice gentle. The question could easily garner a negative reaction, and Castiel half expects one, but it doesn't come. Dean looks taken off guard and a little cornered, but he doesn't storm off or act offended or even tell Castiel to mind his own business. No answer is forthcoming, however.

"Please don't misunderstand me," Castiel clarifies. "I'm more than happy for you to stay as long as you like. I've greatly enjoyed your company, and I hope you have mine. But something tells me there's another reason you don't wish to go home. I'm willing to listen, if you'd like to unburden yourself."

Dean is silent for a long time. Just as Castiel is about to give up and go scrounge for something to pass as dessert, Dean blurts, "My dad died about five months ago." Castiel gapes at him, taken aback by the abruptness, but his face quickly softens with empathy as the words register. So he had been right that Dean has also suffered the loss of a loved one. He sees Dean heave a deep, shuddering breath before continuing. "And I, uh, well, to make a long story short, I'm about to lose my business. So yeah, everything's kinda gone to hell here recently."

"How did your father die?" Castiel asks, tackling one thing at a time. "It must have been untimely. He can't have been very old; I'd hardly believe you're out of your twenties."

"Twenty-seven," Dean says automatically. He shifts in his seat and fiddles with his napkin, restive energy coursing through him. It's obvious that he doesn't make a habit of discussing his personal life, especially when emotions are a factor. "And, uh, yeah, he was only fifty-two. Car accident. I was driving. Going through an intersection, semi comes barreling through the red light, heading straight for my side. I didn't even see it coming, but Dad did. He grabbed the wheel and jerked the car around. Couldn't stop us from getting hit, but it kept the truck from hitting the driver's door square on. I would have died instantly. Instead, _he_ died, a couple days later in the hospital." Almost inaudibly, as though to himself, he adds, "Dunno what the hell he was thinking."

Castiel frowns at this. "He was trying to save your life, Dean. He must have loved you very much."

"Yeah," Dean says, sounding unconvinced, and there's a hint of something else in his voice that Castiel can't quite name.

"What's the matter?" Castiel asks. He's silent for a moment as he studies Dean, then he answers his own question with sudden insight. "You don't think you deserve to be saved."

Dean doesn't remark on this. It's the opposite of a denial, and it breaks Castiel's heart. How can Dean not see what Castiel sees? How can he not realize how much he was loved? Surely he must see his own worth and value through the selfless risk his father had taken without a moment's hesitation in an effort to save the life of his son—a risk that had ultimately cost him his life. Is it unwarranted guilt that blinds Dean?

"Your father's death wasn't your fault, Dean," Castiel attempts. "You weren't the cause of the accident, and even if he hadn't done what he did, there's nothing to say that he would have lived."

"Doesn't matter," Dean says, blunt and acerbic. "I'm the reason he's dead, Cas. You have any idea how that feels, what a burden it is to have someone else decide that their life is worth less than yours? I want to be angry at him for it, but since he's dead I can't even have that."

"No, I don't suppose I have any idea," Castiel says, and he doesn't. He's pretty sure there's no one that would do the same for him. Anna might have, but even she had a tendency to become so wrapped up in her own world that she would often miss what was going on in Castiel's. He was always the one pulled into her orbit, not vice versa. He doesn't doubt her love, but he's not sure that she would have laid down her life for him. "I'm sorry," he offers at length, knowing full well how weak it sounds in the face of Dean's very real pain.

"Yeah, well," Dean says, but there's no sting to the sarcasm. He just sighs tiredly.

"And your business?" Castiel ventures, for Dean's sake reluctant to ask, but needing to know the answer, for reasons he can't quite explain and doesn't care to examine.

"Uh, yeah, okay," Dean concedes, parking a resolute elbow on the table as he seems to settle some debate within himself. He runs his hand through his hair, then hunches over to rest his temple on his palm, pivoting on it to look toward Castiel. "It will make more sense if I give you some background first. Might take a few minutes though."

"There's nothing I'd rather do right now than listen. Please." Castiel chides himself for how needy he sounds, but he wants Dean to know he's not just being polite. He truly wants to hear whatever Dean is willing to share with him, and he'll give his feelings the respect they deserve. More than anything, he wants Dean to trust him.

He considers suggesting they move to the more comfortable couch, but he doesn't want to break this fragile mood that has Dean willing to talk, so he simply situates himself to face Dean more squarely and waits patiently for Dean to collect his thoughts.

  


"My mom died when I was four," Dean begins. "Some sick son of a bitch broke in and stabbed her, then set the house on fire to cover his tracks. We found out later he'd been after my brother, who was just six months at the time—asshole had kidnapped a couple other kids too—but Mom went in to Sammy's room to check on him just in time to save him and get herself killed in the process.

"It was—it pretty much broke my dad. After a brief investigation, the police called it a dead end, but that wasn't good enough for Dad. I mean, he wanted revenge, you know? So we went on the road. Lived out of skeevy motels and Dad's Impala. I'd look after Sam, and Dad would go do his thing. I'd been to dozens of different schools before I dropped out during senior year. Dad would work the occasional odd job, but mostly he'd just pick up and go the minute he'd catch wind of something that sounded like it might be the guy that killed Mom. It never was, but he caught quite a few murderers and kidnappers and other creeps. Killed a few, too. Got in some pretty sticky situations over the years. Dad was a tough bastard. Was in the Marines; went to 'Nam and all. Shouldn't have died the way he did.

"So anyway, when I was old enough, he started taking me on his hunts. He trained Sam and me both to take care of ourselves, you know? We put quite a few evil sons of bitches away, or in the ground. I, uh, I guess I kinda took to it. I mean, school wasn't my thing—but I could win a fist fight or shoot a sawed-off like nobody's damn business.

"Sam's the smart one, always was. He always hated the life. Ran off to college finally, after this big fight with Dad. We didn't really talk for a while after that. It, uh, it was my fault, really. I guess I'd kinda always thought we'd stick together, and I was mad at him for breaking up the family even more. But I, I get it, you know? I don't blame him for wanting out. I was just being a dick about it.

"So it was just Dad and me, and we just kept doing our thing. Sometimes we'd split; I'd take the Impala—he'd given her to me when I turned eighteen—and he'd take his pickup, and we'd cover more ground that way, but usually we worked together. And then one day about three years ago, we got a lead that turned out to be the real deal, and before we knew it, the ugly-ass bastard that killed Mom was dead.

"Dad hardly knew what to do with himself. He'd promised for years that if the guy ever got caught, he'd settle down, renew his mechanic's license, and open up his own garage. Since he taught me everything he knew, we figured we'd go in together. Bobby—a family friend of ours—tried to give us some money to get us started, and Dad didn't want to take it, but he finally agreed to take it as a loan. We ended up here because Dad found us a good deal on renting a little garage, and I found us an apartment. We had to take a certification course, since Dad hadn't worked as a mechanic in years, and I'd never done it formally. That took a year, but we'd worked on setting stuff up in the meantime, and afterward he got his license renewed, and we were able to open up the shop right away. I had to have a year of experience under my belt before I could get certified, but I've got it now.

"Everything went pretty good for a while there. Business took off. The first six months or so we were too busy to breathe, trying to get everything running smoothly. The business was there, so we eventually even hired a couple guys.

"But once things settled down, Dad—well, I guess he just didn't know how to cope with a normal life anymore, without having revenge as his whole purpose, you know? So he, he started drinking. I mean, he'd always been a heavy drinker, and he'd come home hammered more than a couple times when Sam and I were kids, but this was different. He got reckless about it. He'd go out and not come back until the middle of the night, drunk off his ass. And then he started drinking at home in the afternoon, and then in the mornings.

"One day earlier this year I was going over the books at the garage—Dad sure as hell wasn't handling it anymore—and we were about eight grand short. That's when I found out that he'd been gambling when he went out drinking, and losing. I'd never seen him lose before, not unless he damn well meant to. Hustling was how we'd made ends meet on the road more often than not. I mean, I'm not exactly proud of that, but you do what you gotta do.

"So I bawled him out about the money, and there was a big blowout, and he finally drove off in his truck. I got a call from the hospital at four in the morning that he'd wrapped his truck around a tree. Somehow he'd only ended up with a broken collarbone and some cracked ribs, but the truck was totaled. He swore he'd clean up after that, and it was rough, but he was doing it. We had to let one of the guys go because of the money situation, but with Dad actually working again, we were getting by, but just barely.

"And then the wreck happened, and he was gone. Between rent and utilities and paychecks, with just Benny and me—he's my employee—working, we can't keep up. The money Bobby loaned us is long gone, and I still haven't paid him back. We need some help, but I've crunched the numbers a dozen different times, and we just can't afford to hire anyone else. I've been working constantly, and it's just not enough. I went downtown today to apply for a business loan, but I got turned down. Credit's shot to hell, and we've got no collateral, so….

"I don't know what I'm gonna do."

  


Toward the end of Dean's speech, Castiel had watched his eyes glisten with unshed tears, but he had successfully kept them at bay. But with the utterance of his last sentence—a desperate, broken thing itself, and seemingly unintended for vocalization—one rogue tear betrays him and slips down his cheek. Rather than wiping at it, he ignores it, letting it make its trail down his face and ultimately disappear into the corner or his mouth, as though by not acknowledging it he could reasonably deny any association with it.

Castiel wants to brush it away.

"Dean, I'm so sorry," he says, feeling he ought to say something but knowing the futility of it. "You've really been dealt a difficult hand. Your whole family has. I wish there was something I could say or do to help, but I realize that's worth little in the face of the challenges you're dealing with. But I am confident you'll get through this. You've already proven to be remarkably resilient and adaptable, far more than most people would have been in your situation."

"Thanks," Dean says, his voice dull and exhausted.

Castiel aches with the desire to comfort Dean in some tactile manner, and it's such a foreign impulse that he marvels at it. He nearly reaches out to clasp Dean's shoulder in a gesture of solidarity.

But Dean has apparently decided that that's enough of that. "Bathroom," he says, standing, and he disappears down the hall. Castiel is left staring after him.

He should take this moment to clean up after them, but his mind is too full. The dishes can rot where they sit, as far as he is concerned.

He wanders over to his piano and seats himself there, the impulse to play when his mind is troubled so ingrained that it has become almost instinct.  He lifts the lid and runs his fingers over the keys, then he begins playing softly—Chopin, his usual favorite.  His hands know the song well enough that they require little direction, and while he plays, he thinks.

  


Castiel doesn't know what to feel about Dean's story. Dean has lived a life he cannot fathom—a life few people would be able to fathom, for that matter. He's faced down adversity and dangers that most people would only experience secondhand, through their televisions or on the pages of a book. He hadn't spoken of his own motivation in helping his father on his "hunts," but Castiel didn't get the impression that revenge was the only thing that drove him.

Dean did say he had taken to the life, and maybe that should concern Castiel. If everything that Dean said is true, then Dean is a very dangerous person, deadly with weaponry and general knowledge of the darker parts of the world. He's obviously a little rough around the edges, and Castiel doesn't doubt that he's bent (if not broken) the law on a few occasions. Just looking at these facts, all common sense would tell him that Dean is _not_ someone he should have brought home with him.

But something, some gut instinct, assures Castiel that Dean's heart is pure, that his motivations were righteous and selfless—far more than his father's. Just by hearing him talk about his family, it is easy to tell that he cares deeply, and it doesn't seem like much of a stretch that he might also care for others in the world around him, that he might put his life on the line in order to keep them safe. He must have a nurturing side, since in practically raising his brother, he took on more responsibility at an early age than any child should have to, and from the sound of it, his brother turned out to be an intelligent and motivated young man himself. He also clearly has a strong work ethic and is, despite his denials, highly intelligent, based on all that he said about getting his mechanic's license and building his business.

Dean didn't have much of a childhood, and he lived most of it without a mother and without the steady presence of a father. Castiel's own childhood may have been a little less disjointed and chaotic, but he can certainly relate to the loss and absence of parents.

Anyone who has endured what Dean has would have more than enough excuse to have come out of it a fractured, dysfunctional mess. But Dean hasn't. He hasn't broken, he hasn't given up. He's kept going, kept his warmth and his hope and his sense of humor. He is, as Castiel had told him earlier, remarkably resilient.

Yes, more than anything else, Castiel is convinced of one thing.

Dean is absolutely amazing.

  


"What's that you're playing?" Dean asks, suddenly appearing behind him.

Castiel jumps. He'd gotten so lost in his music that he hadn't heard Dean return. "Chopin's Nocturne in D Flat. It's my favorite. I've always found it very soothing."

"It's, uh, it's real nice, Cas." Dean listens until Castiel finishes the song, then with a note of surprise in his voice, he says, "You're actually really good, aren't you?"

"I ought to be," Castiel says. "I took lessons for long enough. I'm not as good as I'd be if I had any serious natural talent for it, though."

"Who cares? You're plenty good, and you enjoy it, right?" Castiel nods. "So that's what counts."

"I suppose."

"I've always kinda wanted to learn to play the guitar, but I never really had a chance." Dean shrugs dismissively.

"Then make your own chance," Castiel tells him. "I mean, I know right now you can't afford it, but you'll get back on your feet. When you do, buy yourself a guitar and take some lessons. Or just buy a book. You're smart. I'm certain you could teach yourself."

Dean huffs a little nasal laugh, as though he lacks Castiel's confidence in his abilities, and it makes Castiel angry, though he's not sure at whom or what. "Maybe," Dean says, the noncommittal word the best answer Castiel knows he's going to get.

Dean quickly changes the subject. "You know any Zeppelin?" he asks.

"Who?"

"God, you're killing me here, buddy. Can't say I'm surprised, though."

"I doubt that my not knowing this Zeppelin is doing you any kind of lasting harm, Dean," Castiel says dryly.

Dean squints at him, then snorts with a shake of his head, clearly unsure whether or not Castiel was teasing him. Castiel keeps his face neutral and lets him wonder. "Yeah, okay. Led Zeppelin, dude. Only the greatest rock band of the seventies, arguably ever."

Castiel just looks at Dean with no hint of recognition on his face. No, Castiel has never heard of them, but he thinks they have a very strange name. Why would one want a zeppelin made of lead? It couldn't possibly fly. Puzzling. But if Dean likes this band….

"Can you sing one of their songs?" Castiel asks. "I could try to accompany you."

"That's the worst idea you've had all night, Cas," Dean declares, but his eyes are twinkling with humor. "My singing is enthusiastic, but that's about all I can say for it."

"Well, improvisation has never been my strong point, but I'm feeling reckless."

"It will never work. You don't even know the riffs."

Castiel _doesn't_ know the riffs. In fact, he doesn't know what riffs are. He's also pretty sure he doesn't care, so he just smiles. "Humor me."

"Fine," Dean says, sitting on the edge of the bench beside Castiel, much to Castiel's private delight. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

Dean starts to sing, softly at first, but losing his inhibitions with every note. Castiel listens closely to pick up the key, and he starts playing some basic chords, like an echo to Dean's voice, and he throws in a few flourishes whenever there's opportunity. The words are actually rather nice—about wanderlust, as near as Castiel can tell, but yes, okay, Dean really is kind of terrible. But so is Castiel, and Dean is enjoying himself if his grin is anything to go by, and all of a sudden Dean bursts out laughing.

"This is probably the worst damn thing I've ever heard," he says between fits of hilarity. "We sound nothing like the song."

Castiel wouldn't know, but he knows they sound awful, and that's funny enough, and Dean's laughter is infectious. He finds himself laughing a little too, but mostly (if he's honest with himself) he's just smiling at how Dean's eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, how mirth chases away the sorrow and weariness that hide in the corners of Dean's features. He remembers his thought earlier in the night about wanting to make Dean laugh as much as possible, and it's even truer now.

Castiel realizes he's been staring at Dean with what must be the most besotted look, but Dean is looking back, and his laughter quiets. His smile softens to a small, intimate thing, and he scoots closer on the bench.

Castiel's pulse races.

"Hey, Cas," Dean breathes—husky and inviting, and he's too close, it's too much, it's not _fair._

"Hello, Dean."

The electricity between them is nigh unbearable. If Dean doesn't make a move, then Castiel is not sure he'll be able to refrain. But it's inevitable, isn't it? Surely Castiel isn't misreading this, surely this energy between them can be nothing but mutual attraction and desire, surely it's just a question of who makes the first move.

Dean breaks first.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It got really hot really fast, guys. That rating ain't there for nothing. Just so ya know.
> 
> Art by the talented [purgatoryjar](http://purgatoryjar.tumblr.com/).

Dean breaks first, after an eternity of seconds, and then, at last—oh wonder and glory—Dean is kissing Castiel, and they pant into each other's open mouths as though they've already been at it for quite some time. And perhaps they have—perhaps this entire evening has just been a session of the longest, strangest sort of foreplay. 

They kiss like a moratorium has been declared on the act—hurried and frantic and inelegant. They're pawing at each other, pressing closer like they can't get close enough, and Dean twists around and throws a knee over Castiel, straddling him on the bench. Castiel cranes his neck up, seeking Dean's lips once more, and Dean leans down to meet him, and their tongues do battle as they plunder each other's mouths in turn.

Castiel digs his fingers into Dean's back, pulling him closer still. He feels the press of Dean's erection against his stomach, and the rapidly accelerating situation suddenly becomes crystal clear through the muddled haze of arousal.

Dean must come to the same realization, because he jumps up and pulls Castiel behind him over to the couch before Castiel could even think to protest, should he for some godforsaken reason want to protest. Down Dean shoves him, unceremoniously; he climbs on top of him, his long body draped over Castiel's, a delicious weight that feels to Castiel oh so right. They're locked together at the lips again like they'd never stopped, and Castiel is so unbelievably aroused already, and he knows exactly where this is going.

There are a dozen things Castiel ought to say: _Not like this_ and _I barely know you_ and _What does this mean to you?_ But he doesn't say any of them. Instead, when he manages to break apart from Dean long enough to gasp a breath and pant out a broken string of words, he asks, "Are you sure about this? I thought you didn't…."

Dean noses under Castiel's stubbled jaw, brushing his lips against his throat. "Guess you're an exception."

That's all Castiel needs to hear. Every protest, every preconceived idea about how his first time should be, every self-imposed rule about waiting for some stability in a relationship (or hell, a relationship _period)—_ it all flies out the window. He doesn't care anymore, because Dean is right here right now with his clever, calloused hands and his warm, wet mouth and his beautiful, scarred soul.

Something clicks into place—some primal instinct, perhaps, long lain dormant—and Castiel flips them, spurred into frantic action. He straddles Dean's hips as he swiftly divests himself of his shirts, then he leans down to crash their lips together once again before tugging Dean's shirts off too.

Dean lets Castiel take charge, but he is not passive. He bucks his hips up, rubbing their straining lengths together through their pants. Castiel doesn't even bother suppressing a loud moan at the glorious friction. Any intentions of further undressing them fall away in favor of the immediate gratification of rutting against each other as though any second spent doing anything else is a second wasted. He shifts a little to better align them, then he writhes and thrusts and presses, frenzied and desperate and _wanting._ Dean chuckles softy, but it turns into a strangled gasp at the end, and Castiel knows he's not alone in his fevered desire.

It's a feeling like nothing else Castiel has ever experienced. He is, of course, no stranger to touching himself; he knows his own likes and dislikes and moods, and despite his inexperience, he never thought he would seem like a naïve innocent in a sexual situation. But he never accounted for, nor could he have imagined, the difference the other person might make, when that person is someone to whom he is attracted, not only in body, but also in mind and spirit.

He couldn't have imagined that Dean's fingers trailing down his back would leave wildfires in their wake, that every slide of their arousals against each other, even through the barrier of fabric, would be like lightning, that with every kiss his world would narrow to a microcosm of pleasure and heat and _Dean._

It's infinitely greater than anything he thought it would be.

He vaguely registers that removing their remaining clothing will exponentially increase the intensity of the sensations, but he's certain that it would be too much. Castiel is so far gone already; he's not going to last long at this rate. In fact, if he wants to last beyond the next thirty seconds or so, he's going to have to force himself to tear away and try a new approach. Besides, he'd like to take care of Dean here. If this can help Dean forget all his troubles for a few minutes, if it can be a bright spot in an otherwise dismal time for him, then Castiel will be glad.

Dean has quickly become precious to Castiel, far quicker than he knows objectively is wise, but he's beyond caring. He wants to be someone important to Dean too, to be instrumental in bringing him happiness, to be able to pull him from the hell of his own personal misery.

With great effort he stills his hips, putting an end to the frantic pace. A moment passes before Dean follows suit, his hands resting on the small of Castiel's back, fingers just under the waistband of his slacks, and he looks a little confused at the change in the atmosphere. "Cas?" he asks, his voice lower and more drawling than Castiel has yet heard it, and it goes straight to Castiel's core and spreads outwards. He has to shut his eyes as a delicious shudder dances through him.

"Let me take care of you, Dean," he murmurs, staring intently into Dean's gaze, and Dean averts his eyes at the words, clearly embarrassed and likely not thinking himself worthy of such sentiment. Castiel resolves to teach him otherwise.

He kisses Dean again, unhurried and tender, and Dean returns it, obviously on surer footing with the physical element than the emotional. He twirls their tongues together, now licking across the roof of Castiel's mouth, now tracing behind the line of his teeth. Balancing himself on one elbow, Castiel brings a hand up to stroke once across Dean's cheek, then he runs his hand down over the square of his shoulder to grip his bicep. Castiel can feel the effort of restraint in Dean's muscles, his body pulled taut and almost vibrating with energy begging for release.

Maintaining eye contact the whole way, Castiel slides down Dean's body, finally settling himself between his legs.  He reaches for the button of Dean's jeans, hoping the slight shake of his hands isn't too obvious, and he undoes it and tugs the zipper down.  He works the jeans and boxers down over Dean's hips, but his own position in the narrow space of the couch interferes with him pulling them all the way off. He sits back and Dean shuffles around, and they finally manage it. Dean relaxes back once more and spreads his legs wantonly under Castiel's attentions; one knee is lifted and pressed into the back of the couch, and the other leg is hanging off, foot solid against the floor.

The feeble flames of the dying fire flicker across flesh laid bare to Castiel's hungry eyes, and he devours the sight before him. Dean is fit but not overly muscled, the result of honest labor rather than any serious workout regime. Castiel trails his eyes down Dean's smooth chest, down to the jut of his ribs just visible as he heaves a breath, down further to the slight softness of his belly as the muscles there twitch with anticipation under Castiel's gaze, down the line of light hair that grows thicker as it frames his erection, a bead of pre-cum glistening on the tip. Castiel presses his fingertips into the soft flesh of Dean's bared inner thighs, and he rakes his nails across them, leaving white trails in the pale flesh that quickly flush red.

He can't look away from Dean's dick, veins standing out in marbled relief against ruddy skin, stretched taut with the fullness of his arousal. Castiel thinks it at once beautiful and intimidating; his mouth practically waters with the desire to taste Dean, to take him into his mouth and watch him shake apart under his ministrations. But his lack of any experience at this freezes him in place. He hopes he can do this right, that his clumsiness will not make this frustrating and unpleasant for Dean.

But then Dean brings a hand up to rest on his head, fingers loosely twined in his hair in silent encouragement, and Castiel leans down. He licks a tentative stripe up his dick, from the base to the head, and it bobs against his chin when his tongue flicks off the tip. Dean sighs deeply. The skin is as velvety as it looks, and the pre-cum tastes salty and a little bitter on Castiel's tongue, but not altogether off-putting and certainly not insurmountable. He looks up to catch Dean's eye, and Dean grins crookedly. Emboldened, Castiel wraps his lips around the head and swirls his tongue.

He discovers that pleasure makes Dean talkative, as he starts babbling assurances and instructions in between hitched breaths and moans. "Yeah, just like that, Cas," he says. "More. Take me deeper." Castiel sinks down further, careful to keep his lips tucked over his teeth. "Yes, god, so good, so fuckin' good." Castiel backs off, then takes Dean further still until he feels the tip of Dean's cock bump against the back of his throat. He's grateful in that moment for his wide mouth and lack of any serious gag reflex.

"Fuck, yes, so good, baby!" Castiel is unable to suppress a groan at the endearment (though he tries not to read too much into it, knowing it's likely only habitual), but muffled by the length of Dean filling his mouth, the sound only vibrates in his throat. Apparently that's good, because Dean reflexively jerks, thrusting himself even deeper, and Castiel _does_ gag a little then. "Sorry," Dean says. "Touch my balls?"

Castiel wants to laugh at that, but he keeps it internal and does as instructed, feeling the weight of them in his hand as he backs off Dean's dick again before plunging down once more. He squeezes lightly, rolling them the way he himself likes it, and he lets a fingertip venture back to stroke Dean's perineum. Dean tenses briefly, but soon he relaxes once more, though his breathing quickens.

Castiel wants to slip a finger just a little further back and slide it into Dean, feel the heat of the tight muscles clenching around him, see Dean's expression as his body is caught between the conflicting desires of resisting the intrusion and begging for more. But Castiel doesn't dare, doesn't know how Dean might react, if it might be too much too soon, if it's even something in which Dean would ever be interested in the first place. So instead, he contents himself with stroking the smooth span of skin behind Dean's balls, taking care not to let a finger stray into uncharted territory.

Guided by Dean's stilted directions, Castiel continues to gently massage his sack while working his mouth up and down Dean's dick with growing confidence. He experiments with twisting his head just so on every downward stroke, finds that the motion causes Dean to tighten his grip on Castiel's hair and let loose a string of disjointed profanities. He tries to open his throat so that he can take Dean to the root, but he can't quite manage it without feeling like he might choke. Perhaps with practice he might accomplish it.

Castiel's eyes water as he bobs back and forth with increasing speed and force. Dean's responses become less coherent, and he writhes beneath Castiel to the point where Castiel ceases his hand's other occupation and instead grips Dean's hips, pressing him forcefully into the couch to still his motion.

"Fuck," Dean gasps as a shudder wracks his whole body. "Cas—I'm—more—just a little—'m close—"

Castiel sucks harder and presses his tongue against the underside of Dean's cock. He's mesmerized by this Dean, this Dean that's open and raw and uninhibited. He wants to see him fall apart and know that he's responsible.

"Close—Cas—oh _fuck—_ gonna—" Dean tugs Castiel's head back by the hair—a clear warning to move or get a mouthful. But Castiel wants all of Dean. He angles his eyes up to meet Dean's hooded, bleary gaze, the intention to stay right where he is clear on his face. That's all it takes, and Dean's coming in hot spurts on his tongue. Castiel tries to swallow it all down, but it's more difficult than he expected, and some ends up dribbling down his chin. When it's over, he pulls off of Dean with a wet sound that's utterly obscene.

Dean lies back against the cushions, boneless, chest heaving. Castiel crawls his way up his body for a kiss, and it's lazy and filthy and wonderful. His still-clothed groin presses into Dean's hip, and it's only then that he realizes how painfully hard he still is. A moan escapes his lips before he can stop it.

Dean huffs a breathy laugh and ruffles Castiel's hair with a shaky hand. It's the wrong kind of playful for the heat of the moment, but Castiel is not bothered by it. "I've got ya, buddy. Just give me a sec to catch my breath."

Castiel groans in frustration. He understands, he really does, but without the distraction of taking care of Dean first, his own state requires urgent attention. He needs some form of relief _now._ Even just rutting against Dean as he lies there still would be better than nothing.

At the very least, his pants have to go. He scrambles up to stand on wobbly legs and reaches for his button.

"Hey, now, impatient, huh?" Dean says, sitting up and reaching out to swat Castiel's hands away. "I said I've got ya." He makes quick work of the button and zipper, and Castiel's pants fall to pool at his feet. Dean plants his hands firmly on Castiel's ass and squeezes him through the thin fabric, then, spreading his legs, tugs Castiel to stand closer. There's a damp patch on his boxers, but Dean has no care for it and nuzzles into his crotch.

"Dean," Castiel says, knowing nothing else to say that might encompass the full spectrum of what he's feeling. He scrabbles for a grip on Dean's hunched shoulders.

"I like the way you say my name, Cas. Say it again."

"Dean," Castiel repeats, beside himself with want for the man before him. "Dean, _Dean."_

Dean is mouthing at him through his boxers now, adding to the wetness; he slips his hands up and under the elastic to fondle bare skin for a moment before pushing the underwear down. He moves his face out of the way, instead lifting it to press his forehead against Castiel's stomach and tongue at his belly button. Castiel's erection springs free, and he hisses as first the cool air hits it, then Dean's hot breath.

"Here, lemme—" Dean mumbles, then he nudges Castiel away, giving himself room to slide off the couch and kneel between the couch and the coffee table. "Better," he says, manhandling Castiel into place facing him. The change in position puts Dean's head at a more convenient height. "Couldn't blow you good like that."

That's fine, that's good, but heaven and hell would he just hurry up already? "Dean!" Castiel growls, imploring and desperate, any vestiges of patience now extinct. He twines the fingers of one hand into the short hair at Dean's crown, urging him forward.

Dean hums a small, amused sound, but he doesn't resist the motion, and then he's wrapping those perfect lips around Castiel's dick.

And it really is as mind-blowing as Castiel has always heard it is, to be enveloped in the wet, vital heat of someone's mouth, to be at the mercy of the whims of another, unable to anticipate the minutest quirks of movement: a firm flick of the tongue, a sudden hard suction.

Dean's sinking down slowly— _too_ slowly; he's teasing him and it's too much—it's _cruel._ Castiel watches as his dick disappears into Dean's mouth at what seems a glacial pace, and he can't help it—he _thrusts._

With a lurch Dean gags, and he pulls away, coughing. Mortified, Castiel bends toward him, fluttering his shaking hand along Dean's arm in concern.  Castiel is not so far gone down the path toward ecstasy that he has no thought to spare for the comfort of his companion. "Sorry! I'm so sorry, I—"

"Hey, no, that was my fault," Dean says, smoothing his hands along Castiel's hips as though calming a skittish animal. He coughs again. "Just wasn't expecting it. I totally did the same thing to you anyway. You don't have to hold back."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Seriously, dude, it's cool." Dean's voice still sounds faintly strained, but the coughing seems to have subsided.

Castiel had found it challenging enough to suck Dean off with Dean being mostly still. He can't imagine what it would be like to have him pounding down his throat; he knows he could never have done it—not with his current skill level, anyway. A notion prickles the back of his mind about something not adding up, about Dean claiming to be straight yet knowing how to do this, but Castiel has far better things with which to occupy his mind, and the fleeting thought vanishes. "Are you sure?" he asks.

"Yep, come on. Go to town." He tilts his head back and makes a beckoning motion toward his mouth as he situates himself more comfortably on his knees. When Castiel still looks at him with uncertainty, he adds, "Fuck my face, Cas."

Castiel never thought he'd be one for dirty talk, but that…that absolutely undoes him. A disconcertingly feral growl rumbles deep in his chest, and, grabbing a handful of Dean's hair once more, he shoves back into Dean's waiting mouth. He's sheathed to the root, Dean's nose brushing his curls; he feels Dean's throat pulsate around his cock.

The feeling is so incredible that he's certain he's going to fall apart.

He twists his other hand in Dean's hair, not knowing what else to do with it but needing it to be tethered to something. His grip must be painfully tight, but Dean seems to enjoy it. He gives a little strangled sound as Castiel tugs, a shudder wracking his body.

Dean doesn't just let him have complete run of the situation, however. It seems there are limits to even his prowess, and he settles guiding hands on Castiel's hips, his blunt nails digging in to the soft flesh of Castiel's ass. He lets him thrust with abandon for a short while, then he stills Castiel and backs off, presumably to breathe, but during these pauses he works his skilled tongue around Castiel's cock in ways that drive him just as wild as Dean swallowing him down. Then he tugs his hips forward again, urging him deeper, and Castiel thrusts another blissful handful of times.

Wet, gurgling noises come from Dean's forced-open throat as Castiel slips in and out of it, and the sounds shouldn't be appealing, but they are. Saliva pools in the corners of Dean's stretched mouth and dribbles down in stringy tendrils, and it should probably be a turn-off, but instead Castiel thinks he's never seen anything quite so arousing. Maybe it has to do with how Dean hasn't broken their eye contact once, how he is staring up at Castiel with a look of such profundity in his streaming eyes, as though to say the humiliation is worth it if it brings Castiel pleasure.

In an embarrassingly short time, Castiel feels the tightening of his balls that signals his orgasm is eminent.  "Dean," he gasps out, warning. "I'm—"

But Dean just grips his hips once more and shoves him deep, holding him there, and Castiel's vision whites out. He throws his head back and hollers out the culmination of his pleasure as he spills down Dean's throat. Dean swallows around him, and it feels like his seed is being pulled out of him, like Dean is milking him for all he's worth, down to the last drop.

When he's wrung dry, Castiel feels his knees start to buckle, so he twists around to collapse on the couch. He slumps back, unable to do anything but heave great breaths through his open mouth. Dean wipes his mouth off on his arm, then rises from the floor and sits beside Castiel.

"Good?" he asks, his voice raw and strained.

Castiel can only manage a nod, and Dean chuckles at his blissed-out state.

"Ever been deep throated before?"

Castiel shakes his head. He's never been _anythinged_ before, but Dean obviously assumes otherwise. That information can be disclosed at a later date; Castiel doesn't have the energy for the discussion now, and he doesn't know how Dean will react.

"It's pretty great, right? I mean, BJs are usually good, but deep throating's a whole 'nother ballgame." Dean snickers, though Castiel is not certain at what. He simply nods again.

Drowsiness is beginning to engulf him, but he's also beset with a tenuous feeling of dissatisfaction. He doesn't want this conversation, this flippant discussion of the act they've just engaged in. He doesn't want to trivialize it, because whether Dean knows it or not, tonight has been significant to Castiel.

At the outset, he knew that no commitments were being made, that this might very well be to Dean a one night stand, that he should not expect anything more, but his half-asleep mind has no care for these cautions. The connection they've shared has been real and deep. Castiel feels it to his bones. It can't mean nothing. Surely Dean must feel it too.

Right now, Castiel wants to hold and be held, wants to wrest what tenderness he can from this moment. He wants this to be the start of something lasting. He doesn't want to lose Dean.

He rotates to lie prostrate on the couch, and he holds out his arms in invitation. "Dean."

Dean goes very still at the request, and a brief flash of something almost like panic flickers on his face, but it's gone so fast that Castiel thinks his sleepy eyes must be playing tricks on him. Before Castiel has a chance to register concern, Dean lies down beside him. The space is far too narrow for two grown men, but Castiel contentedly nestles close and rests his head on Dean's chest, pressing a kiss into his skin. He won't sleep, he decides, but he will allow himself to indulge in a little afterglow cuddling, and Dean doesn't seem to object.

"I'm glad it was my shoulder you fell asleep on," Castiel says.

"Yeah," Dean murmurs.

Castiel's eyelids are beginning to drift shut of their own accord, and he blinks slowly. "I want to take you out later. Okay?"

"Okay."

"I'm…really…happy," Castiel whispers, and he falls deeply asleep.

 

When Castiel wakes, he's curled up on the couch under an afghan. The fire has long since died. He sits up to squint over the back of the couch at the glowing numbers of the microwave's clock in the kitchen. It's a few minutes to four in the morning.

He wonders blearily why he's naked under the blanket. Memories of the evening come flooding back, and that's when it hits him.

He's alone.

He springs up, paying no mind to the chilly air rushing over his bare skin, and he hurries to the kitchen, flipping on a light. He sees no sign of Dean, just the dishes on the breakfast bar and the other detritus from the meal's preparation strewn across the countertops. From there he runs to his bedroom and through it to the bathroom. Dean is not there. He makes the full circuit after that, though he knows in his heart that it's pointless—the guest bedroom and bathroom, the office, even the pantry.

Dean is gone.

It's only when Castiel returns to the couch in a numb sort of haze that he notices it. An offensively cheery-looking neon orange note sits on the coffee table—one of his own sticky notes, procured from the drawer in the kitchen. On it a few words are jotted, in a casual, all-caps printed style of handwriting.

 

_For what it's worth—_

_sorry_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this chapter a tad early because I'm thinking of making weekend posting a (tentatively) regular thing. Also, if all goes as planned, I'm looking at ten to eleven chapters for this thing. It keeps growing.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Art by the talented [purgatoryjar](http://purgatoryjar.tumblr.com/).

Dean Winchester sits in the backseat of a cab at twenty to midnight, and he muses. Or rather, he tries _not_ to muse.

He tries not to think about the homey little house in the rear-view mirror, tries not to think of the welcome he'd received there. He tries not to think of the fire and the spaghetti and the awful musical attempts and the conversation about Dr. Sexy. He tries not to think about the tousled hair and the stupidly blue eyes and the tacky trench coat and the surprisingly lithe and toned body, and he certainly tries not to think of that gravelly voice and the way it seemed to caress his name like he's something special.

Most of all he tries not to think of the charmingly odd, kind man to whom all these things belong, who made all these things happen.

He also tries not to think of how he ran away like a damn coward.

…Yeah, so much for this _not thinking about it_ business.

He tries to tell himself that it was just any other one night stand, and he never stays the night for any of those, does he? Of course not! He doesn't feel this guilt over those girls he leaves asleep in their beds after a good fuck. So what's the deal here?

Nope, nope, he said he wasn't going to think about it, and damn it, he's _not going to think about it_. He's going to write this off as a bad trip, like that time he took the joint from that son of a bitch Don—not Dean's smartest moment, for the record.

But his mind is a stubborn little bitch, apparently, because it keeps u-turning right back to the subject like a damn homing pigeon.

He needs a distraction.

Well, he could always think about the garage's financial situation.   _That's_ been pretty reliably all-consuming of his mental energies lately.

Funny,  _Cas_ had been a fantastic distraction from thoughts of the _garage_ just a couple hours ago. Dean had barely had a thought to spare for it while with Cas, until they talked about it.   And then, when Cas had told him he was sure Dean would manage to turn things around, for once Dean had almost believed it.   He's had what few friends and family members he has tell him the same thing a dozen times over, and he never—

Son of a bitch, there his mind goes again.   _Damn it, Winchester, get a hold of yourself!_

Perhaps he should remind himself of _why_ he ran.

Dean has been with men before, if his particular skills hadn't made that immanently obvious. But he hadn't wanted those encounters. They had simply been necessary.

He _hasn't_ been with a man simply because he wanted to—not before Cas, anyway.

Dean wasn't lying when he told Cas he doesn't swing that way—he's never allowed himself to. Dean knows he has the occasional attraction to men; he's known for a long time. But the idea of actually acting on his attraction has always filled him with such shame. He's never been able to disassociate the prospect with his past deeds.

There's more than just hustling that Dean is not proud of.

John Winchester never knew what his oldest son had done in back alleys behind seedy bars and the darkened cabs of trucks at truck stops, never knew the lengths to which Dean had gone to keep food on the table for his brother when John was away for longer periods than planned.

John would have torn him a new one had he known—not just for selling himself, but also for "being gay." There was no in-between in John's book.

John wasn't a particularly prejudiced person; he was generally a proponent of the "live and let live" philosophy. But like many people of his generation, the idea of being gay was tied irrevocably to effeminacy. The absolute importance of being a "man's man" had been drilled into John's head for most of his life—by societal expectations in his youth, by general sentiment in the Marines, by the image he thought it necessary to project to his sons and everyone else in order to be effective at his "job." In turn, he had drilled it into the heads of his sons, or attempted to, anyway.

John Winchester is dead, but Dean still feels like he's being judged by his father, held to his standards. Sometimes those standards seem impossible.

With any luck, Sam will never know about Dean's history of hooking either. Sam would blame their father, but Dean doesn't. Sam would also turn those sad puppy eyes on him, and Dean couldn't stand that.

He doesn't feel sorry for himself or regret his decisions. If he had it to do over, he would make the same choice. That they are not good memories simply comes with the territory. It was his responsibility to take care of Sam in their father's absence, and if whoring himself out was the only way Dean could think to accomplish this, he deserves whatever shame he feels at the memory.

There had been the occasional woman, but the vast majority of the douchebags who had been willing to pay for the company of the boy with the pretty face—barely past adolescence and clearly lying about his age—had been men. He'd been called a whore enough times before his eighteenth birthday that he had started to believe it, and it had taken most of the years since he had stopped turning tricks to stop believing it.

Tonight, there on his knees, with another man's dick shoved down his throat, it had all come crashing back. It had been all he could do not to panic right then and there. A lifetime of suppressing his emotions and concealing secrets meant Dean had been able to tamp down the feeling with reasonable success, and when it was over, he desperately clutched at some sense of normalcy in the usual, casual chitchat in which two strangers who have just had sex engage.

Cas hadn't seemed to notice anything was wrong, but he hadn't seemed to care much for the chitchat either. And if Dean is honest with himself, it had felt a little like he was profaning the connection they had undeniably shared.

And that's part of what scared him so badly—that connection. He had had a second moment of panic when Cas had invited him to lie on the couch with him. It had seemed like an invitation to more than just physical proximity, and that's just not an option. It is, in fact, a Really Bad Idea.

Prior to Dean's freak-out, being with Cas had, against all odds, felt like a First, maybe even The First—the first sex of a relationship that would end up being your last, your forever, your (ugh) happily ever after or whatever the hell any damn starry-eyed high school girl would call it.

Dean doesn't believe in forever. Okay, maybe that's not quite true. He believes in forever for people like his parents (had his mom lived), even like Sam, who's got a steady head on his shoulders and is a total sap and made a fantastic choice in a fiancée in Jess.

But for someone like Dean himself? Never. Dean isn't relationship material, and even if he was, he wouldn't be seeking one with a _man._

No, it's for the best that he left. Dean just wishes he could shake the feeling that his leaving will hurt Cas deeply.

Suddenly the fatigue that had caused this whole mess hits him with redoubled force, and all Dean wants is to go home to his tiny, empty apartment and sleep away the memory of this entire upsetting day. He rubs his eyes and tries to stay awake for the remaining minutes of the cab ride.

 

Dean's day is not off to a good start.

He wakes with his 7:30 alarm after a less than restful night, and his first conscious thought as he stumbles to the coffee pot is to wonder how it would have been if he had stayed with Cas. Is Cas a morning person? Somehow Dean thinks not. He'd probably grunt unhappily and give the Care Bear Stare to whatever person or electronic device had had the audacity to wake him. He'd probably roll over and burrow that tousled head back under the covers, and if his hair is that wild when he's wearing a business suit, how much messier would it be in the morning, or after sex in an actual bed?

Dean is grinning before he remembers himself, and then he scowls. What is it about Cas that's gotten under his skin so badly?

Would he have stayed if Cas had been a woman, he wonders?

Damn it, it's too early in the morning for this sort of self-reflective mumbo-jumbo. He turns on the radio as loud as he dares so as not to wake the neighbors, and he sings along as he scrambles a couple eggs and fries some sausage for his breakfast, but his heart isn't in it.

He's halfway through eating when he remembers that he's going to have to tell Benny that they were turned down for the loan, and suddenly he's not hungry anymore. He eats the rest anyway, but the grease sits unpleasantly on his stomach.

 

When he arrives at the garage at a quarter 'til nine, Benny is already there, his legs sticking out from under the '94 Taurus that had come in the day before with complaints of an elusive rattling.

Benny's a bear of a man, of both the grizzly and the teddy varieties at once, somehow. He had been a fugitive when Dean had met him. Shortly before his mom's killer was caught, Dean had been on a solo hunt for someone else outside of Tallahassee when he had spotted him in a hole-in-the-wall diner. He had recognized his face from an online listing of known fugitives that had declared him to be Benjamin Lafitte of New Orleans, murderer of three young women. Dean had quickly changed targets and tailed him. In the grapple that followed, Benny got the upper hand, despite the fact that Dean was armed with his favorite .45 and Benny with only a knife.

Dean had been pretty sure that it was lights out, but Benny had taken a good look at him and released his grip. "Aw, hell, you're just a kid," he'd said. "I ain't killed nobody before, and I don't have no mind to start now. Do whatever you think you have to do, brother."

Dean had instinctively believed his claims of innocence and had let him go, but only after enlisting his help in catching the guy he'd originally been after, who had turned out to be just one member of a human trafficking ring. They'd both saved each other's lives half a dozen times before the week was out, and they'd parted friends.

Nearly two years later Benny's name was cleared, and he returned to his hometown only to find his girl married to someone else and his former workplace no longer in existence. When he called to give Dean the news, good and bad, Dean had offered him a job.

The garage had just reached a stable enough point that the potential for impending growth had made it prudent to hire someone. Benny had not done much work on cars before, but he had had mechanical experience working on boats with his former job, and he was willing to learn and work for low pay until he did. Dean had vouched for him and finally swayed John over to his side. Benny had proven to be a reliable, hard worker, and even John had to admit that he was an asset. But he still needs several months of experience before he's even eligible for his ASE certification, and if they have to close down before then, it will be harder for Benny to find another job.

"Hey, Benny."

Benny rolls out on the creeper and studies Dean for a few seconds.

"You ain't lookin' none too sunshiny this mornin', brother," he says finally, his Louisianan accent thick. "Nor soundin' it. You gone and caught a cold?"

"I'm fine," Dean says. He doesn't care to explain why his voice is a little hoarse today, for obvious reasons.

"All right," Benny says, conciliatory.

There's a lengthy silence during which Dean tries to think of how to broach the subject of their last financial hopes being dashed.

Benny beats him to it.  "Sorry it didn't work out."  His voice is gentle—such a contrast to his appearance but no surprise to anyone who knows him.

"How'd you know?"

"You'd 'a called me if it'd been good news."

"Yeah, guess so," Dean concedes.

"There're other banks," Benny offers. "One of 'em's bound to give us somethin'. We haven't lost the garage, and we've still got jobs lined up. We ain't licked yet, Dean."

Benny slides back under the Taurus, but Dean just stands there. He thinks of the pile of bills on the desk in the office, several of them already overdue; he thinks of how Benny doesn't know that Dean has cut his own paycheck almost in half for the last month so Benny's pay wouldn't be affected but the utilities could still be paid off.

When he doesn't hear Dean move, Benny rolls himself out once more and looks at him, but he doesn't say anything.

"Benny, we're licked," Dean says finally.

"Yeah," says Benny softly. "Yeah, I know. Now come over here and help me figure out what's wrong with this little girl. We've got a lot to do today."

 

The rest of the day is shaping up to be on par with the first part. They work on the Taurus all morning. Dean almost immediately diagnoses the rattling as coming from the heat shield around the catalytic converter, but he keeps quiet and gives Benny space to figure that out himself, which he does soon enough.

Several calls come through that turn into appointments, which would usually improve Dean's mood, but today nothing seems to be able to break through his gloom. Writing down a handful of jobs on their schedule just feels like delaying the inevitable.

Normally at work he's in the zone—his life outside of the shop rarely interrupts his focus on cars. But this morning, Dean struggles to keep his mind from straying to thoughts of Cas. Random memories from the night before creep up on him when he's least expecting them, and warmth fills his chest for a moment before he realizes it's happened again. His guilt over having left like he did builds with every memory. These yo-yoing emotions make Dean increasingly morose and closed-off as the hours tick by.

Benny seems to sense that something is bothering Dean beyond business troubles, because he keeps giving Dean sidelong glances as they work beside each other. Thankfully, he doesn't ask questions, and Dean doesn't offer information.

Shortly before Dean takes his usual 1:00 lunch, a middle-aged CEO type in a suit that probably cost more than Dean's entire wardrobe drives up in his (totally douchey, in Dean's opinion) red Ferrari and comes inside. As it turns out, he isn't there for the Ferrari but rather to inquire about a restoration. The guy recently bought a '68 'Cuda off a friend, and he wants to know what would be involved in restoring it and how much it would cost. He whips a laptop out of his briefcase and shows off some pictures of the car. It's in serious need of some attention, for sure, but Dean is confident that it's nothing he couldn't handle.

Dean desperately wants to accept the job, but he has to turn the man down. The guy is willing to pay well, and Winchester Auto could make a pretty good profit off the deal, but the time it would take from start to finish makes it impossible for Dean to say yes. Restorations that extensive can take months to complete, largely due to how long it can take to find the correct parts, though the actual labor involved is nothing to sneeze at either. Plus, they'd have to have the cash to put into the car initially, and they simply don't. Right now they can only afford to take on jobs that will pay out in full right away, and who knows if they will even still be in business by the end of the time it would take to complete this job?

It's a catch-22 situation, and Dean hates it.

This is the kind of job that Dean has been wanting to do all along, and taking it could get his name out there and bring other business of the same sort to him. Back before John had gambled away their assets, Dean had gotten to do one restoration job on a '71 GTO—nothing as extensive as the Barracuda would be, but it had been the most fun experience he'd had since he'd entered the working world. Doing that kind of work— _that's_ Dean's dream. He doesn't want to be replacing water pumps and radiator hoses forever—not that that's _lesser_ work in any way, and it's not that he doesn't like it, but it's just not _all_ that he wants. It's never bothered him before, because everyone has to start somewhere, and at least he was doing it with his own business. But now even that is slipping through his fingers.

The man seems a little put out at Dean's refusal, but he leaves his number, and he burns rubber as he drives off in his stupid, fancy car. Dean watches him go and feels his chest tighten. He can clearly picture just how gorgeous the 'Cuda would've been when finished. Not as pretty as his Baby, of course, but a beauty nonetheless.

He walks the few feet back to his workbench and in a sudden burst of anger kicks over the small toolbox standing beside it. It's heavier than he thought, and his foot hurts like hell, but he refuses to react.

Benny watches all this silently, and when Dean continues to stand there staring at the overturned toolbox, fists clenched, Benny finally comes up behind him and squeezes his shoulder. "Go take your lunch, Dean."

Dean nods without looking Benny in the eye and heads to the office. He shuts the door.

 

The afternoon passes uneventfully in relative silence. Dean sends Benny home at 6:00 but stays until nearly 9:00 himself, continuing his work on the transmission of an '01 Civic before doing some paperwork for the last hour.

As Dean trudges through the slush on the sidewalk—all that remains of last night's snow, he remembers the walk to Cas's house and how Cas was so concerned that Dean might think he had done something inappropriate while on the bus. Ironic how a few hours later they had blown way past inappropriate.

Dean didn't get the impression that Cas was the type to sleep around a lot. He was clearly inexperienced, (although his blow-job skills hadn't been half bad, albeit a little on the clumsy side). He had probably taken what happened between them far more seriously than Dean's usual conquests would.

"I want to take you out later," he'd said. "I'm really happy," he'd said. And Dean had trampled all over that happiness and walked out on him without so much as a goodbye.

Oh, sure, he had left a note. But all he had managed to say in the note was "sorry." He hadn't even thanked Cas for his kindness. He had known stealing away in the night was a dick move, and saying thank you wouldn't make it any better, so he had only given what he knew was a pointless apology. But he _had_ meant it; he _was_ sorry. That's why he had written the note in the first place. He wouldn't have left one at all with anyone else. Really, Dean realizes, it had been to make himself feel better. He knew deep down it would do nothing to make Cas feel better.

_I really am a giant bag of dicks,_ Dean thinks ruefully.

 

Thankfully his apartment is only a five minute walk from the garage, so he's not able to pursue that train of thought much further. He's only been home long enough to kick his boots off and throw some leftover Chinese in the microwave when his phone rings.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean answers, opening the fridge in search of a beer.

"Hey, Dean. You're not still at work, are you?"

God, it's good to hear his overgrown little brother's voice—not that Dean would ever admit to it. Sam has been up to his neck in homework, so it's been a couple weeks since they've called. "No, I just got home. What's up?"

"Have you made any plans for Christmas?"

Dean frowns. He doesn't like the sound of this. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to? It's me, Dean Winchester, your brother. You know I never do Christmas."

Sam sighs, and his voice takes on that prissy tone that's usually accompanied by pursed lips and an eye roll and means, approximately, _How am I related to someone this stupid?_ "It's a courtesy, Dean. I was being polite. But just, you know, just never mind. Jess and I are thinking about visiting over Christmas, okay?"

And there it is. "Oh no you don't. It's not that I don't want to see you, Sam, but I'm way too busy right now to be entertaining, and I'm not in much of a holiday mood." The microwave beeps, and Dean retrieves his food, plopping down at the little table.

"Dean," Sam says, exasperated.

"Sam," Dean says, copying Sam's tone like the mature adult he is. He shoves a big bite of rice in his mouth but keeps talking around it. "Thought you were going with Jess's folks, anyway. Don't they have some super snazzy chalet or some damn thing out in Colorado somewhere?"

"Vail," Sam clarifies. "And yeah, we were invited to go."

Dean takes a swig of his beer. "Don't you think Jess probably wants to be with her family for the holiday?"

"Actually, visiting you was her idea," Sam says. "Look, we won't be in your way. I get it if you have to work; you don't need to entertain us. But, you know, it's the first Christmas since Dad's been gone, and we don't want you to be alone."

A rush of affection for his future sister-in-law washes over Dean. He's touched that Jess is concerned about him enough to pass up a fantastic vacation with her family just to come and make sure he's okay. He appreciates the sentiment, but it's unnecessary. He's fine.

"I'm fine," he says.  "And I'm not alone.  I've got Benny.  We hang out outside of work sometimes."

"Didn't you tell me Benny is seeing someone now?"

"Yeah, they've been dating for a few months now.  Seems to be going well."

"You ever think of trying the dating thing too?" Sam asks, because he's a nosy little bitch. "Or are you just planning to pick up girls at seedy bars for the rest of your life?"

"I don't know," Dean says, annoyed at the sudden turn of the conversation. His brother has to turn everything into an episode of Dr. Phil. It's the last thing Dean wants to discuss right now, and today of all days, it hits a little too close to home. He stabs a piece of General Tso's with an angry fork.

"You don't know?"

"That's what I said."

"What does that even mean, Dean?"

"It means I don't know," Dean says belligerently. "Listen, Sam, I'm fine. I don't need you to come see me just because it's Christmas. Go do the thing with the in-laws."

"It's not a matter of whether or not you're fine. We're coming because we want to see—"

Sam's voice cuts off, and there's some shuffling noises, and then Jess's voice comes through the phone, authoritative and loud. "Dean Winchester, you listen to me. We've already bought the plane tickets, and we're coming whether you like it or not. So you can just deal. Hi, by the way."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean says, but she's already handed the phone back to Sam, who snickers. "Shut up, bitch."

"Jerk," Sam responds automatically. "So, Jess will be done with her exams on Thursday, and my last one is first thing Friday. We've got an early afternoon flight, so we'll see you Friday evening. Okay?"

"Fine," Dean says, knowing when he's lost an argument. He takes a long pull at his beer and wishes it was something stronger. "You know I can't pick you up from the airport."

"I know. We'll get a cab. It's not a big deal."

It _is_ a big deal to Dean that he currently has no car. It's the one freedom he's always had—that of the open road. He may be settled in one place for now, and he's happy with that, but not having the ability to just take off down the road on a whim is making him a little crazy. Not to mention that public transportation has proven to have certain…risks. Dark-haired, blue-eyed risks. Dean doesn't say any of that to Sam, however.

"I don't want to do the whole Christmas thing," he says instead.

Sam sighs. "Fine, Dean. I'll talk to Jess. But we're at least doing dinner or something. I'm not going to make my fiancée eat leftovers on Christmas Day."

"Whatever."

"Okay, I've got to go. I have a metric crap-ton of studying to do. I'll see you next Friday, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Dean says. "Good luck on your exams or whatever."

"Thanks. Bye, Dean."

"Bye."

Dean finishes his dinner and washes up, then he flops down on the couch, remote in hand. He can't afford cable, and nothing is playing on the local channels but Dr. Sexy reruns. He turns the TV off and goes to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't try Cas's coping methods at home, kids. He's a Bad Example.
> 
> Art by the talented [purgatoryjar](http://purgatoryjar.tumblr.com/).

_For what it's worth—_

_sorry_

_He didn't even sign his name,_ Castiel thinks pointlessly, and he breaks down. He sinks to his knees, buries his face in his hands, and sobs.

This reaction is unlike him. He usually internalizes his emotions more. It's the middle of the night, and he's overtired and overstimulated, he supposes, his armor worn thin by the barrage of new and overwhelming feelings.

For a brief, reckless moment, Castiel had thought that he had found something, some _one,_ that together they could have something beautiful and wonderful and everything Castiel never knew he wanted. _Dean_ had been everything he never knew he wanted.

Every word Dean had spoken had captivated Castiel. Every smile had been a delight, every glance a revelation. Dean had woven enchantments with every movement, and Castiel had been snared. Every glimpse of Dean's true self—possessing strength unrivaled, yet wounded, vulnerable, and above all good and full of selfless love—every glimpse had awoken in Castiel a longing to reach out and touch, to cradle Dean's lovely soul to himself with sheltering hands like the treasure it is.

He had thought, for a moment, that Dean might let him. He had been wrong.

A little prickle in the back of his mind had tried to warn him just how foolish he was being, but he had ignored it. What place did caution have in the face of the intensity of his feelings?

Yes, Castiel had been a fool.

He hadn't realized how lonely he had been until he wasn't anymore, and now that he's alone once again, he feels it acutely, as though some physical part of himself has been ripped from him violently. He could have borne it if Dean had said that having sex had been a mistake, and could they just be friends? But to lose Dean entirely—it's too much.

He never even learned Dean's last name.

His grief begins to shift to anger. Castiel had asked to take Dean out later, and Dean had said okay. Had he been lying? Had Dean been putting up a front the whole time? Had he intended to leave from the start, to break all ties and never see Castiel again? Had he merely been using Castiel as a distraction? Had the sex simply been a way to pay out an imagined debt for kindness rendered? Had he felt none of the connection, the absolute _rightness,_ that Castiel had felt?

Had he been laughing at Castiel's naïveté the entire time?

Castiel had given Dean something meaningful to himself, something he's never given anyone else, and Dean had tossed it aside like so much garbage. It's not a fair accusation—Dean hadn't known he was Castiel's first. Castiel could have slept with a hundred different people before Dean, for all Dean knew. Objectively, Castiel knows this. But lashing out, placing blame on the only other person involved, numbs the pain just a little.

At least, that's what he tries to convince himself.

As quickly as the anger came on, it fades, and Castiel is left with nothing but unassuaged sorrow and bone-deep exhaustion. He wipes at his damp face with a trembling hand. He's got to get a hold of himself, he thinks, but that can come later. For now he just wants to sleep and forget.

He stands, and, grabbing the afghan, he goes to curl up in his nest-chair. But then he remembers Dean calling him a baby bird, and he can't. The couch is absolutely out too, so he goes instead to his bedroom and climbs under the covers, not bothering to put on pajamas. His mind blessedly blank, he stares hollowly at the shadowed ceiling for over an hour before he falls into a restless sleep.

 

Castiel doesn't go in to work that day. When his alarm goes off barely an hour after he fell asleep, he only has to consider his options for a couple moments before he decides he unequivocally does not wish to see people today. He grabs his phone from his nightstand and calls his department, leaving a message on the answering machine saying he's not well. He probably sounds pretty convincing. He goes right back to sleep.

 

When he wakes again, it's well after noon. His mind is clearer, but his mood is, if possible, darker. He would be pretty content to just lie there and see if it's possible to glare a hole in the ceiling, but biology is against him on the one and science on the other. He gets up to go to the bathroom, and once he's up, he figures he ought to stay up.

He showers in hopes that it will improve his mood. It doesn't. Throwing on some jeans and a t-shirt, he wanders into the kitchen and forces himself to eat something. He deals with the dishes from last night along with the new ones, trying desperately not to remember. He doesn't want to think about it.

When he's done, he retrieves his book out of the pocket of his trench coat, and he heads to his nest-chair. For a moment he hesitates in front of it, but he tells himself he's being ridiculous, and he forces himself to sit. He curls up with his book and tries to read.

After an hour and twenty minutes of reading the same two pages and still comprehending none of it, he gives reading up for a lost cause.

How do other people do it? How do people go to bed with someone and just walk away without getting their hearts all tied up in knots? He supposes it helps if you don't have strong feelings for the person in the first place. Would he have been so hurt by Dean walking out if they hadn't had sex?

He thinks he might have been. And right now, he doesn't have the courage to examine the implications of that.

Wryly, he admits to himself that he's acting like a broken-hearted teenager. He's an adult, damn it—a mature, adult man, and he can deal with this. Ultimately, it was his mistake; he can own up to it, learn, and move on.

But moving on can happen tomorrow. Today is for wallowing. And what do adult men often do when they want to wallow in pain? They get drunk.

Castiel has never been much of a drinker—he'll try whatever he's handed at company functions, and Gabriel and Anna would always order him the same as whatever they were having. But he has never drunk much on his own; he's never seen the point. Today he thinks he sees it, or one point, anyway.

He puts on his shoes and trench coat and grabs his wallet, and he heads out the door. There's a liquor store a few blocks away. He's never been inside, but there's a first time for everything, and apparently first times come in groups.

The sun is out, and its rays glisten on the surviving patches of snow, doomed to become mere water once again. Already puddles are forming.  An image flashes in his mind of flakes alighting on long lashes, illuminated by the glow of a streetlamp, and he's vindictively glad of the snow's demise. He sloshes through the puddles on his resolute path.

When he arrives at the store, he marches right in. He has no idea what to buy, so he heads straight for a clerk, not caring if he looks like an ignorant idiot for it.

"I'll take whatever you have that will get me drunk fast," he says, and he mentally amends his previous assessment—a _melodramatic,_ ignorant idiot.

Alarm flashes in the young clerk's wide eyes, and he looks for a moment like he's about to ask if Castiel is okay, but one look at Castiel's unflinching, stony gaze seems to make him think better of it.  Stuttering compliances, he bustles off to collect the needed items.

A half-dozen bottles of varying shapes and sizes sit in a cluster on the counter when he's done, and he starts to explain what each is, but Castiel cuts him off.

"I'll take them all," he says.

The kid gapes again, but this time he timidly speaks. "Seriously, dude, just pick one. You'll kill yourself if you try to drink them all." He cringes upon finishing his words, as though he expects Castiel to snap and start beating him over the head or something.

Castiel doesn't beat him over the head. His cheeks heat up a little with his mistake, but he gives the clerk what he hopes is a reassuring and thankful smile. It probably comes off more like a grimace. "You pick. It doesn't matter to me."

The clerk grabs one of the bottles and rings it up, and Castiel pays. As the kid hands him his purchase, he says, "I hope you feel better?" His nervous inflection makes the statement sound like a question.

"Thanks," Castiel says, and he slinks out of the store.

 

When Castiel arrives home, he sets the bottle on his coffee table. The little orange square is still clinging to the surface, mocking him. He rips it off, wads it up, and tosses it into the dark fireplace.

He pads off to the kitchen in search of the shot glasses that he knows are shoved in the back of one of his cabinets, still in their original packaging. They had been Gabriel's idea of a housewarming gift. Well, it's high time they're put to use. Shot glass in hand, Castiel heads back over to the liquor awaiting him. Pointedly ignoring any images that taunt him, he settles on the couch and reaches for the bottle. It burns going down, and it's just what he wanted.

 

Three shots in, Castiel is feeling pleasantly buzzed. Who needs a relationship, anyway? Who needs _Dean?_ Castiel has done just fine on his own until this point, and he'll continue on doing just fine. He has his house and his job, and he's perfectly happy. He pours another.

 

Five shots in, Castiel is already more drunk than he's ever been. He registers this fact vaguely, but mostly he's just thinking that maybe _he_ doesn't need Dean, but Dean certainly needs him. Okay, maybe that's a bit conceited, but Dean needs _someone,_ someone who is going to understand him, treasure him, see what a beautiful person he is. It's inconceivable that anyone else could take care of him the way Castiel could, and he's angry at the mere thought of someone else trying. Furiously, he fumbles for the bottle.

 

It hits him while downing the sixth shot that Dean must have gotten scared. Yes, that must be what had happened. Dean had _said_ he wasn't interested in men, but he obviously _was_ interested in Castiel, and he probably just didn't know what to do with that. Castiel should have stopped anything from happening. He should have had enough self-control. Dean hadn't been ready. Maybe given time, Dean could have adjusted to the idea, but he had gotten spooked and had run because Castiel hadn't been able to say no. It's all Castiel's fault. He'd screwed himself right out of a relationship with the most wonderful person he's ever met, all because he couldn't keep it in his pants. He glares down at his crotch in disgust. "It's all your fault," he slurs, and he takes another swallow.

 

He turns the TV on after the eighth shot. There's a Dr. Sexy marathon on, and Castiel thinks that's just _peachy._ If he's watching to cheer himself up with his favorite show, it's a misguided hope, because it just makes his chest ache. He watches for the next two hours anyway. Maybe it's a sort of penance.

 

When he can't take any more Dr. Sexy, he starts back in on the bottle. After two hours of TV, he's sobered somewhat, and he doesn't think he likes it.

 

He's crying again by the time he's downed his eleventh shot. He's never enough for anyone. His father never had time for him, his two oldest brothers don't speak to him, and his other brother can only manage to send a damn _postcard._ He couldn't do anything to keep his mother and his sister alive. And now, he wasn't enough for Dean. Why wasn't he enough for Dean? Castiel is a failure who can't keep someone's interest for more than a few hours. He throws back another swallow of amber liquid.

 

Bees. Castiel really, _really_ likes bees. He can't believe he's never thought about it before. The way they harvest pollen and make delicious honey, the way they have such complex little societies—it's all beyond amazing, really. If it wasn't winter, he'd go outside and find a bee, follow it home, watch it go about its business. He'd like to watch the bees; he thinks he could sit all day entranced by their comings and goings. Maybe he should get some bees. He could be a beekeeper! He could harvest the honey, keep some for himself, give some away. Or he could sell it! That could be a lucrative business in the event of the apocalypse or something. But it's winter, and there are no bees. Castiel sniffs mournfully, then reaches for the bottle.

 

He takes a sip of his…fourteenth? Fifteenth shot? He's lost count. Nausea hits him like a freight train. He has just enough presence of mind to dash to the garbage can in the kitchen before emptying his stomach. His throat burns with bile, and he with shame. His head marginally clearer, he stumbles to the bathroom to rinse his mouth out, and then he flops down on his unmade bed and doesn't move again until morning.

 

Castiel's alarm goes off at the usual hour, and he's pretty sure that if noise can kill, he'll be dead at any moment. He scrabbles for the button, but the silence only offers slight relief to his pounding head. He lets out a moan of utter misery. His entire body aches, his eyes sting, and his stomach churns with nausea. He's afraid to tempt fate by moving, but he knows he risks falling asleep again if he doesn't get up now, and the thought of the alarm going off again is horrifying. Thank God it's not light out yet.

He crawls off the bed, moving slowly so as to not antagonize his head and stomach. He probably needs to eat something. Are greasy foods good for hangovers or not? He remembers Gabriel saying something about that once, but he can't remember which. Either way, just the thought of something greasy makes him want to heave. Eggs sound good. He'll make some eggs. With this goal in mind, he trudges his way off to the kitchen on wobbly legs after a quick stop in the bathroom.

 _Never again,_ he thinks as he cracks the eggs into the pan. His behavior yesterday was exceedingly embarrassing and entirely unacceptable, and he feels like death itself today as a result. At least his drunken pity party had served one purpose—to take the edge off the pain of his wounded feelings. He's not sure if the relief of his emotional misery is worth the physical misery of this morning, though.

Eating the eggs settles his stomach somewhat, and by the end of his meal he feels like he can handle a cup of coffee. By no means a morning person, he doesn't trust himself to function without his caffeine fix, even on a day when he doesn't have the world's worst hangover. He drags himself through the rest of his morning routine as best he can manage, and by the time he walks out the door he's running a few minutes behind schedule. He has to jog to the bus stop and even then only barely makes it in time.

He took a couple aspirin before leaving, and by the time he's arrived at work his head is marginally better but still by no means _fine._  He slumps through the lobby and up the elevator to his floor, hoping the aura he's exuding conveys "leave me alone" well enough.

It doesn't.

As he's walking past the other cubicles to his own, he hears a familiar accented voice call out, "Whoa, Cassie, not so fast! Where are you going with that face? It could curdle milk."

The voice belongs to Balthazar Roché, a European expatriate about ten years Castiel's senior who had begun with the company shortly after Castiel started. He's handsome with that sort of international flair that ladies find irresistible; his air of casual sophistication makes one imagine he would be most at home swilling wine in some swanky lounge. A true libertine, he makes no secret of his many and colorful exploits with women and men alike. While he's intelligent and good at his job, he seems ill-suited to it. He seems made for espionage, or at least the sort one sees in movies, though whether he'd be the hero or the villain is debatable.

Castiel sometimes finds Balthazar irritating, and he always finds his shameless licentiousness distasteful, though he supposes he's hardly in a position to judge anymore. But the two do talk on a fairly regular basis at work, and they occasionally eat lunch together. Balthazar is not precisely a friend, but he may be the closest thing Castiel has to one.

Today, however, Castiel is in no mood to be trifled with.

"I apologize if my face offends you," he retorts icily, but he halts in front of Balthazar's cubicle.

"So I'm guessing your mysterious ailment was not of the runny nose variety," Balthazar continues, unperturbed. "Where the hell were you yesterday?"

Castiel glares at Balthazar with renewed intensity. "On a bender."

"And how _are_ Jack and Jose?" Balthazar asks, in mockingly sweet tones.

"Dean," Castiel corrects, and he squints at Balthazar in confusion. He wonders how Balthazar knew he was with someone, and he's not sure he likes it, nor the other implications of the statement. "I don't know any Jack or Jose. And a threesome is more your domain, isn't it?"

Balthazar gapes at him. "Cassie, by Jack and Jose, I meant, of course, Jack Daniel's and Jose Cuervo, which are liquors. Which you would know, were you not…" He hesitates, waving his hand in lazy circles, as though fishing for the right word. _"…you._ But on to more important things. Do you mean to tell me that you were with a man yesterday?"

"No. Like I said, yesterday I was on a bender."

"Don't be obtuse." Balthazar rolls his eyes. "The night before, then."

"Yes, if you must know."  

"I take it the drinking was because of this Dean?"

Castiel doesn't answer; he turns on his heels and marches off toward his cubicle.

Not to be dissuaded, Balthazar jumps up and follows him. Castiel sheds his coat, then he sighs loudly as he drops into his chair. He doesn't swivel to face his persistent coworker. "Don't you have better things to do, Balthazar?"

Balthazar drapes himself over the back of Castiel's chair like an overgrown cat. "Not a single thing."

"Well, I have." Castiel shoves Balthazar away, but he does concede to turn the chair toward him.

"Fine." Balthazar protracts the word with as much drama as he can muster, as though he's a child giving in to the unreasonable demands of his parents that he clean his room before he goes out to play. "But you're going to lunch with me today and telling me everything."

"Do I have a choice in the matter?" Castiel asks, knowing the answer. He'd really rather not talk about it, but then again, perhaps talking about it would be therapeutic, and Balthazar, for all his faults, is just about Castiel's only option for a willing and (somewhat) trusted listener.

"Not even slightly."

"Fine."

Castiel turns back around toward his desk, thinking that's the end of it for now, but behind him he hears Balthazar swear. He rotates once more and raises his eyebrows at the other man.

"Damn it, Cassie, why couldn't you have slept with a girl instead?"

Castiel frowns once more at this; he certainly never expected a reaction like that from _Balthazar._ "Why do you care? I can't believe you of all people would be prejudiced."

Chuckling, Balthazar says, "No, no, it's not that at all. You can make a wombat your wife for all I care. It's just that now I owe Meg fifty dollars."

Angry at _this_ bit of news, Castiel frowns harder. "You were betting on…what, my sexuality? Well, you can both keep your money, because I don't have a preference."

"Actually, we were pretty certain of that. Rather, we were betting on whether it would be a man or a woman that would claim your lily-white virtue."

"Go to hell, Balthazar."

Balthazar shrugs nonchalantly. "Rather not. Oh, and Cassie?"

"What?" Castiel grinds out.

"I realize hangovers are a bitch, but your tie is on backwards." Laughing, he scuttles away.

 

The morning passes quickly after that, much to Castiel's relief. His missed day of work had done nothing but add to the pile of paperwork that needs addressing, and he spends the first hour reading and responding to emails. It's easy to get lost in columns of figures, and he's glad of the distraction from his aching head and everything else.

By the time lunch rolls around, he's so engrossed that he doesn't even notice the time. It takes an appearance by Balthazar to alert him to the hour. "Well, don't keep me waiting forever. Get your coat."

They end up at the café across the street—one of their usual haunts. They find a seat in a booth in a back corner, in hopes that it will give them some degree of privacy for their conversation. Castiel looks around and is relieved to see no faces he recognizes from work. He should have been more aware of his surroundings this morning; he'll be lucky if the conversation at his and Balthazar's cubicles hadn't been overheard and spread around already. The last thing he needs is _this_ impending discussion to fuel the rumor mill as well.

The waitress, Hannah, comes right away and takes their orders. She waits on Castiel often, and she always reserves an extra dose of friendliness for him. She's pretty in a wholesome, girl-next-door sort of way, and the last time he was here, he had been debating with himself whether or not he returned her apparent attraction enough to ask her out. He had nearly decided to try, attraction or not, but he had lost his nerve in the end. Today is no different, and she turns a warm smile and hopeful eyes on him, but he can't muster up the slightest spark of interest. All he can see are green eyes and broad shoulders. The smile he gives Hannah in return is hollow, and he knows it. Her own fades a little, and then she turns away to go put their orders in.

Oh, Castiel is screwed.

None of this escapes Balthazar's notice, and he rolls his eyes at the unspoken exchange. He doesn't comment, however, and he wastes no time in kick-starting the planned conversation. "So how did you meet this Dean?"

Castiel sighs. There's nothing for it. Balthazar will wheedle the details out of him one way or another; there's no sense in delaying the inevitable. "On the bus."

"On the bus, as in the day before yesterday? Or had you known him a while already?"

"Day before yesterday."

Balthazar whistles. "Efficient, no waste of time—I like it. So, what, you struck up a conversation, invited him back to your place, and then you did the nasty? I must say I hadn't thought you the type."

Castiel winces at this summation. It's not actually far from the truth, but it leaves out everything that had made the evening special. It leaves out everything _important:_ how he and Dean had bonded, how they'd been fighting mutual attraction all evening, how they had fit together so naturally that it was like they'd always known each other. _I'm_ not _the type,_ he wants to say, but in light of the cold, hard facts, it just seems too hypocritical.

"He fell asleep on my shoulder on the bus, actually," he says instead.

"Cute," Balthazar says dryly. "Go on."

"He slept through his stop, and I felt bad because I hadn't woken him—"

"Wait, why hadn't you woken him?" Balthazar interrupts.

"He looked like he needed the rest," Castiel replies, somewhat sheepishly. The excuse sounds feeble when said aloud.

"Uh huh," Balthazar says, and the unspoken "creeper" hangs in the air.

Castiel shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I did wake him before my stop, and that's when I realized he'd probably slept through his, and I offered to give him coffee and call him a cab if he came with me."

"Smooth."

"I was _concerned,"_ Castiel insists, with growing indignation.

"Sure, sure."

"Balthazar, if you're going to continue to respond sarcastically, I'm not going to tell you any more."

"Very well," Balthazar says. "I'll say no more. Please do continue."

Castiel proceeds to summarize the rest of the evening. He stresses him and Dean's connection in hopes that Balthazar will understand that it had been, at least for him, something out of the ordinary. Out of respect for Dean's privacy, he leaves out the details of Dean's life story and current situation. He also glosses over the actual sex with just a few words in summary. The particulars are irrelevant.

Their food comes a few minutes into the story, and Balthazar, true to his word, simply eats his meal and listens in silence.

When Castiel is finished, Balthazar swallows his last mouthful of corned beef. He studies him for a moment, then he says sincerely, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Castiel says, looking down at his plate. His burger, only half-eaten, has gone cold already.

"But there's one thing I'm not clear on," Balthazar continues. "Who shagged whom?"

The question accomplishes what Castiel knows it was intended for: It breaks the gloomy spell that had descended upon the table with the cessation of his story. He's grateful for the attempt, and consequently he decides to humor his companion. "There was no penetration involved," Castiel says bluntly, rolling his eyes.

Balthazar looks at him like he's lost it. "You didn't even get a proper fuck out of the mess? You poor sod."

"I assure you, it was sufficiently enjoyable," Castiel says, gratitude expended and now beginning to get a little angry.

"So, what, you and he exchanged blow jobs, you fell asleep like an overgrown infant, and then he legged it while you slept? Have I got this right?"

Castiel wants to tell him that no, he's not right and to stop being presumptive, but, well, just like earlier, it's actually a fairly accurate summation. So instead, he says nothing and takes a pointed bite of his cold burger.

Balthazar doesn't get the hint. Or, more likely, he gets the hint but chooses to ignore it. "So little Cassie loses his virginity to a pretty boy he met on the bus and gets his heart broken, all in the same night."

"What makes you so sure I was still in possession of my 'lily-white virtue?'" Castiel asks, delineating Balthazar's words from earlier with air-quotes. He hadn't protested then, but the impudence of the repeated assumption annoys him. Never mind that it's _correct._

"Oh, _please."_

Castiel looks away. It probably counts as a pout, but he doesn't quite care.  He picks at his burger, but he's not particularly interested in finishing it. Hannah comes by and refills their drinks, and the silence stretches on.

"Shall I call the dogs on this Dean, then?" Balthazar asks finally, placating. "I have connections, you know. Just say the word and tell me how he might be found."

It's probably a joke, but the scary thing is, Castiel can almost believe him. That little sliver of doubt causes him to quickly say, "No!"

Balthazar raises his eyebrows at him.

"I'm angry at myself, not him, Balthazar," Castiel explains, and he's a little shocked to find that it's true. "It was poor timing more than anything, I think. He's going through a difficult time right now. His father passed away a couple months ago, and he's struggling to keep his business afloat. The last thing he needed right now was a crisis about his own sexuality. I should have had more self-control."

His drunken epiphany from the night before floods back into his mind, and he's certain that despite his state of inebriation, he'd stumbled upon a truth. Dean had run because the situation disconcerted him. He didn't know how to deal with it. It hadn't been apathy on his part—actually the opposite. Castiel feels so certain of this, now.

It doesn't give him any hope that there might be a second chance for them, however. It's over, and he knows it. But after this talk, and with this revelation, Castiel can see things more clearly now, see the situation for what it actually was. The idea of what might have been still hurts, but he can face the memory. He doesn't have to hate Dean, and the knowledge that he doesn't have to give up the memory is a relief.

How it ended doesn't negate the fact that what they had had, for those mere few hours, had been good.

Castiel smiles a little to himself, much to his surprise.

Balthazar watches him for a while, contemplative. Suddenly he says, in low tones, "Go out with me, Cassie."

It's so completely unexpected and at the worst possible time that Castiel can do nothing but gape for a moment, but then he can't help it—he laughs.

"Well, you don't have to be insulting," Balthazar grumbles.

"I'm sorry, Balthazar, but going out with you involves also going out with whatever cocktail waitress you've picked up for the evening, or a pair of bartenders, or the entire cast of the ballet."

"I could show you a much better time than this Dean ever could," Balthazar says, not disagreeing with Castiel's previous statement.

"Undoubtedly. But what you and I want out of a relationship is very different."

"We can be an item without being exclusive, you know," Balthazar points out. "I'm not going to make a promise I know I won't keep. I'm not cut out for monogamy."

"And I'm not cut out for anything else," Castiel says. "I'm afraid it's an insurmountable difference."

"You're right, of course," Balthazar says, with no apparent hurt feelings. "Oh well, worth a try." He throws a couple bills down on the table, and then he stands. "Lunch is on me. I've got an off-site appointment this afternoon, so I have to run. I'll see you tomorrow at the Christmas party."

Castiel groans. He'd forgotten about the party.

"My offer stands," Balthazar adds. "You know where to find me if you change your mind." Before Castiel has a chance to say anything further, Balthazar is gone.

Castiel looks at his watch and realizes it's high time he gets back to work himself. He slides out of the booth, and as he exits, he nods goodbye at Hannah. She immediately perks up, and he feels instantly guilty.

She's not what he wants. Neither is Balthazar.

Two days ago, he didn't know what he wanted; it was a vague concept, a mere inclination, really. Now what he wants has a name and a face and is utterly beyond his reach.

He hears Balthazar's words about getting his heart broken replay in his head, and he considers that it might be true. As if it wasn't bad enough that he'd gone and given his first time to a stranger—one he'd met on a _bus,_ of all places—he'd gone and fallen for the man too.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the talented [purgatoryjar](http://purgatoryjar.tumblr.com/).

Saturday night, Dean sits swathed in a smoky haze on a barstool, and he isn't enjoying himself.

The atmosphere is a familiar one; he's spent many an evening of his life in dive bars across the country. They're all practically the same, no matter the location or owner: the same decor, the same music, the same sort of patrons.

It should be comfortable and comforting. It always has been, despite the fact that the sketchier bars were often a starting point in his pursuit of customers during those years he sold himself. There had always been plenty of good memories to offset the bad—times spent with his father after a hunt, times spent with ladies he'd later go home with.

He's not sure what's changed, or when.

He's nursing his beer and contemplating something stronger when Benny returns from the restroom and seats himself on the stool next to him. Benny elbows him. "Wanna shoot some pool?"

Dean considers this a moment. Benny is, of course, simply suggesting they play for fun, but Dean's mind goes immediately to his old racket of hustling. In his desperation for cash for the shop, he's considered picking up the game again, but so far he's shot the idea down every time it rears its head. You can only hustle so many times in one joint before they're onto you, and then you'll generally not be welcomed back. It's all well and good when you're just rolling through, but Dean has to live in this town. He could probably win a game or two fair and square for some small-time cash, but the incident with his father has left a bad taste in his mouth for gambling. He kind of thinks he'd like to establish this new life of his the honest way.

Yeah, _that's_ worked out really well so far.

Nonetheless, Dean decides he's not interested in playing, even for fun. "Nah, I'm not in the mood," he says. "You go ahead. That guy over there looks like he'd be up for it."

Benny looks at him a little sadly, and Dean shifts in his seat, discomfited by his friend's shrewd gaze. "All right," Benny says at last. "Think I will."

Benny hasn't been gone more than three minutes when a woman, brunette, voluptuous, and probably only just drinking age, slides onto the vacated barstool.

"Hi," she says.

"Hel- _lo,"_ says Dean, flirtatious out of sheer habit, and he gives her that rakish, one-sided grin that never fails to melt the ladies.

"Your friend won't mind if I sit here for a bit, will he?" she asks, grinning back at him, equally saucy.

"I think he'll be all right," Dean says, looking her up and down without an ounce of subtlety.

"Good," says the girl. "I'm Kara."

"Dean."

"Buy me a drink, Dean?"

"You got it." He motions the bartender over, and Kara orders her drink of choice.

Kara makes small talk until her drink arrives and after, and Dean falls into a sort of ingrained rhythm. Its familiarity cheers him somewhat, and he thinks maybe that's all he needed—to score with some hot girl, no strings, no emotions. And unless he's completely misinterpreting the situation, his odds are looking pretty good.

Sure enough, it's not long before Kara says, "How would you feel about getting out of here, Dean?" As if her brazen words had left any doubt, she cuts her eyes toward him in a manner that leaves no question as to her intentions. Dean catches sight of blue gleaming from behind mascara-coated lashes, and his heartbeat trips over itself, which would be convenient if it was because of the blatantly available woman sitting not two feet away. It's highly _inconvenient_ that the color triggered an image in his mind of a different pair of blue eyes in a very different face.

Suddenly, he's not quite so gung-ho about the prospect of an evening with Kara.

He decides to go for it anyway. He's not going to let this…this _thing_ with Cas throw him off his game, damn it! It happened, and he feels bad for how it ended, but it _ended._ It's been days, and it's high time he moves on.

"Sounds great," he says, and he's not sure whether the lie is more of an insult to Kara or himself.

Kara narrows her eyes. She seems lost in thought for a moment as she looks at him, and what the hell is with all the unsolicited scrutiny lately? "You're not single, are you?" she says suddenly, accusing.

"What?" Dean asks lamely, because that was the last thing he had expected.

"You, like, I don't know, _hesitated,"_ Kara explains, crossing her arms. How did this proposition turn so abruptly into a confrontation? "You've totally got a girl, don't you? Listen, dude, I may be easy, but I draw the line at guys who cheat."

"What the hell? _No,"_ Dean insists, annoyance beginning to quash any remaining dregs of interest. "I'm not a cheater. One hundred percent single here."

"Then why'd you hesitate?" she asks, and then she holds up placating hands. "Look, maybe you are single, maybe not. I don't know what's up with you, but my instincts say _something's_ off. Sorry, but I think I'm out."

"Suit yourself," Dean says peevishly. "Your freaking loss."

"Whatever," Kara huffs. "Thanks for the drink."

Dean watches her go, and he can't deny the feeling of relief that sweeps through him. It's the opposite of what he _should_ be feeling, and it only adds to Dean's irascibility.

He reaches for his beer and finds it empty, so he flags the bartender down and finally asks for the whiskey he actually wants. His father's run-in with alcoholism should give Dean pause, but he's no saint, and he _has_ cut back. He should never have let Benny talk him into going out tonight. In his current mood, the company and atmosphere is wasted on him, and the temptation of booze is too strong.

He throws back the whiskey when it comes, and then suddenly a large hand grabs the glass from him and sets it aside. Dean jumps. "What the hell, Benny?"

"The hell yourself! That little lady was at least an eight. Now God knows I ain't sayin' you ought to go home with every woman that wiggles her hips at you, but since when do you pass that up?"

Dean shrugs. "Guess I wasn't her type."

Benny purses his lips, obviously not buying that explanation. "You tryin' to tell me you _struck out?_ Why am I thinkin' it was more like _you_ turned _her_ down?"

"I don't know, Benny," Dean says, sighing. He's too tired for much further belligerence. The incident with Cas is only a fraction of what's weighing on him, of course. He's been working long hours and worrying himself sick, and he's legitimately exhausted. "Maybe it was a little of both." He attempts to retrieve his whiskey from Benny's grasp, but Benny moves it further away. Now Dean's annoyance is beginning to bleed to anger. "Seriously, what the hell, man? Give me my drink."

Benny ignores him. "Talk to me, buddy. Somethin's on your mind, and it ain't just the shop. You've been actin' off since Thursday."

"Give me my drink, Benny."

"All right," Benny complies, and he hands the glass over. Dean immediately takes a long pull, relishing the burn. "I ain't your keeper. But I think you ought to lay off, and I also think you ought to get whatever it is that's eatin' at you off your chest."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England. Tell me another."

"Look," Dean says. "I was a dick to someone I didn't want to be a dick to. Okay? Happy?"

"Who were you a dick to?"

 _"Who_ doesn't matter," Dean says. He has no intention of telling Benny that he got friendly with a _guy._ He's in no mood for a discussion about his sexuality. In fact, he's pretty sure he'll never be in the mood for that particular conversation. "Point is I feel bad about it."

"Ain't that what they invented the word 'sorry' for?" For such a nice guy, Benny can sure be a smart-ass sometimes. But it's just not that simple. Benny doesn't get it.

"I think that ship's sailed," Dean insists.

"Never too late until somebody ain't breathin'," Benny says.

"Listen, Benny, I don't wanna talk about it. I'm gonna finish my drink, and then I'm gonna go home. You should have taken the girl out tonight instead."

"I told you earlier, Sophie's havin' a girls' night with some friends. She's just fine without me. 'Sides, if I didn't drag you out tonight, you would have just sat there and brooded. Better to sit here and brood with a friend." Benny claps Dean on the shoulder companionably.

"I guess," Dean says, and he forces a smile to show he really does appreciate the gesture. Benny is indeed a good friend, and Dean's grateful to have him.

They sit in silence for several minutes as Dean downs the rest of his drink. Christmas music plays in the background, and Benny absently whistles along.

"Benny?"

"Yeah?"

"Can it."

Benny chuckles, but he stops whistling.

Another minute passes. Dean stares into his glass at the last few swallows of liquid. "Hey Benny?"

"Yeah?"

"We've, uh, we've got some tough decisions to make here soon. I don't think we can put it off much longer."

"Yeah," Benny says.

"Rent goes up on the garage in January," Dean reminds him.

"Mmm-hmm."

"Think you can stay a few minutes late Monday? Maybe we can look over the figures together. I'm not the only one with something at stake here."

"You know I will, brother."

"This really freaking sucks," Dean says, and he polishes off his drink.

"Sure does," Benny agrees.

 

Sunday is Dean's one day off, and he spends it doing all the household chores he neglected during the week. Come Monday, he's feeling more rested than he has in a number of days, but the scheduled discussion regarding the fate of his business hangs over his head and hovers in the air of the shop, like a countdown to doomsday.

The first hour after opening brings a handful of walk-ins, but the afternoon is quiet. Dean turns the radio up to combat the gloomy atmosphere and to keep his mind from straying to unpleasant subjects. At about a quarter after four, Dean has his hands deep in the engine of a Charger when he thinks he hears the bell over the door jingle.

"Benny!" he hollers.

"Hola," comes Benny's response.

"Take care of the customer, would you? Kinda busy here."

Dean hears no sound of voices following, which he vaguely registers as odd, but he's too engrossed in his work to give the silence much thought. Maybe he imagined the bell; it was hard to tell over the music.

The music is also why he doesn't hear the footsteps that come to a stop right beside him, but then a gruff voice says, "You gonna fix that engine, or are you just gonna keep gettin' all handsy with it?"

Dean knows that voice, and he loves its owner more than any (living) person next to his brother, though he'd never in a million years tell the man that. "Bobby!" Dean exclaims, wheeling toward the newcomer and banging his head on the hood of the Charger in the process. "Son of a _bitch!"_ he curses in pain.

Bobby snorts. "Smooth as ever, I see."

"Shut up," Dean says, touching his head gingerly and checking for blood. There's none, fortunately, but he'll probably sprout a nasty bump in a few hours. He looks at Bobby properly then; the sturdy man's grubby trucker's cap shadows his bearded face, expression curmudgeonly as ever, but his eyes are affectionate. Dean gives in to the surge of emotion at seeing his father's old friend—the only parental figure left in his life—and moves in for a hug. "Man, it's good to see you."

Bobby Singer has been a second father to Dean and his brother for many years. When they were children, they would occasionally stay at his home in South Dakota for a couple weeks at a time during the summers, whenever John was going on a hunt that looked like it might be lengthy and dangerous. Those weeks were some of the only times Sam and Dean ever got to be normal children. Bobby taught them to play ball and fish and skip rocks; his salvage yard was both a playground and a jungle to explore to both boys. Bobby and his salvage yard also had a hand in Dean's love for and skill with classic cars.

"It's good to see you too, kid," Bobby says, hugging back, and that's all the sentimentality he'll allow. He shoves Dean back and glares at him. "Damn it, Dean, how come I gotta find out from your brother that you're having a rough go of it out here? Why don't you try tellin' somebody somethin' once in a while?"

"I didn't want you to think I was asking for help," Dean says, and he knows immediately what a poor excuse Bobby will consider that, what a poor excuse it _is._

"We're family, ya idjit!" Bobby yells, just as expected. "You can ask family for help! That's what it's _for."_

"You've helped enough, Bobby," Dean maintains, albeit more feebly. "I can't take any more of your money."

"Well, that's good, because I ain't offerin' it. I ain't made of green, and I already gave you and your daddy what I could spare. What I _am_ offering is my help, hopefully to keep your heads above water, but failing that, to help you move stuff out and figure out what to do next. I'm here for as long as you lunkheads need me."

The offer appeals to Dean undeniably, but it goes against every grain in him to simply accept. "You've got Singer Salvage to worry about. You can't abandon your own business just to help me with mine."

Bobby waves a dismissive hand. "Yeah, and it's just me, and I ain't got no overhead. The salvage yard can sit for a month or two, no problem. That fool Rufus is keepin' an eye on things while I'm gone, probably drinkin' all my booze and messin' up my house too, but he'll keep things safe, anyhow."

"Bobby—" Dean tries once more, but Bobby cuts him off.

"I ain't takin' no for an answer, boy." That said, he turns away and rolls up his sleeves. "Benny! Give me somethin' to do!"

Dean stares at his retreating back, too floored by this unlooked-for development that it doesn't even occur to him to be annoyed at being bypassed as the boss. With the question of Bobby's help settled, the relief at having someone else there to support him washes over Dean and overwhelms his emotions, worn raw from weeks—no, _months_ of a lot of downs and very few ups. He has to shut himself inside his office to hide his tears.

 

With the addition of Bobby, the planned discussion that evening goes quite differently than originally expected. There's a hopeful tone to the proceedings that's been absent for weeks, even if the reality of the situation is still pretty bleak. But the important thing is that the decision Dean had so dreaded having to make is delayed for the time being.

Winchester Auto is by no means out of the woods. The debts have really racked up; they're only barely managing to pay off the utilities and rent, and like Dean reminded Benny, their landlord is raising the rent on the garage beginning in January. Other expenses are basically just accumulating interest owed at this point—even a few of the debts John had incurred as a result of his alcoholism-driven gambling losses have yet to be paid off.

Even having another pair of capable hands not on the payroll may not be able to save them at this point. They do indeed need the additional help of another employee to generate more revenue, so Bobby's help is more than welcome, but there's a caveat. Dean would have hired someone already (or kept the employee he had had to let go), but the monetary situation has meant that they've had to drop all advertising. Currently, Winchester Auto's only visibility is the sign at the curb, and most of their business is generated via word of mouth. Word of mouth is all well and good, but it's relative; the more business they have in the first place, the more word of their quality services will get around. This principle is especially true of a fledgling business. At the outset, they had taken out ads and run specials, and the business had been there. Since things started going downhill, they haven't been able to maintain that. The amount of business coming their way is currently only enough to keep Dean and Benny busy, albeit with Dean especially working very long hours. They've turned down no business that's come to them, other than the restoration inquiry the other day.

It's yet another catch-22 situation.

But at the least, Bobby's help may be able to buy them some time. Having someone else take on some of the work might free Dean up enough to devote some extra time to pursuing other avenues for funding, though he's not sure what other resources exist that he hasn't already exhausted. Maybe he can get some fliers printed up or something as some short-term means of advertising.

If nothing else, Bobby's coming has served to lift Dean's spirits.

 

Tuesday is Benny's day off, and for once it's not as hectic as it is when Dean is holding down the fort himself. Bobby takes much of the work, which frees Dean up to do some research, now that he's feeling slightly more hopeful than before. He surfs on his old laptop for any information he can, but without much luck.

On Wednesday afternoon, he takes Bobby's F-350 first to the county seat and then to the library to inquire about business resources. He comes up with nothing. They tell him about classes, they tell him about networks, they tell him about student grants—essentially, they tell him about everything imaginable short of something that will actually help. There's simply nothing out there for struggling, debt-laden, two-year-old auto businesses run by high school dropouts.

The lack of success leaves him discouraged yet again, but when he returns to the shop, Benny has written a few appointments on the books, and that little surge of business keeps Dean from getting too down. The next couple days will be busy with jobs, but Dean will try to get some fliers printed out, and next week he'll visit all the banks he hasn't applied for loans at yet. He knows what the outcome will be, but at least no one will be able to say he didn't try.

 

Wednesday night Dean dreams, and it wakes him. He hears Bobby's soft snores coming from John's old room, and a glance at the clock says it's far too early to be awake. He tries to go back to sleep, but he can't get his mind to settle.

Perhaps it's the subject of the dream, which he remembers in vivid detail, although it's starting to fade at the edges like an old photograph, as is the wont of dreams. It was no nightmare; in fact, it was very pleasant, and that's the problem. Dean has done well to keep Cas off his mind over the last several days, and Bobby's coming has been a good distraction in that area. He had hoped he was past that little hang-up. But his subconscious is, apparently, having none of that.

Damn it, remembering the dream is almost embarrassing. It was something fit for any chick flick, he's ashamed to admit. Nothing noteworthy happened in the dream, but there was a lot of conversation and laughter and—god— _cuddling._ He had been happy and carefree in the dream like he hasn't been in a long time, maybe ever, and the comfort of it colors the memory of the dream in warm tones. He wants to burrow back into it like a bed piled high with blankets on a cold night.

Son of a _bitch._

Dean must be losing it.

He rolls over and punches his pillow in frustration. Why can't he just have sex dreams about the guy, like any normal, young, red-blooded American male? That would be far more convenient and easier to deal with. This emotional bullcrap is above Dean's pay grade.

He's never gotten so worked up over a one night stand before in his whole life, and…okay. Fine. So maybe it wasn't just a one night stand. Maybe there had been something more between them. Maybe, just _maybe,_ Dean had _wanted_ there to be something more between them, or at least he had before he had freaked out and split.

It occurs to Dean that he misses Cas. _That's_ the feeling that's been simmering in the back of his head for the past week. Even when he hasn't directly acknowledged it, it's been there, niggling at him with the knowledge of what could have been, what he had thrown away before he even had a chance to see what it—what _they—_ might have become. Finally his subconscious decided to do something about it via the wishful thinking of this dream.

The sharp guilt Dean felt at the outset has faded somewhat, but his regret has grown to an almost unmanageable thing. He hadn't realized it until now, but the feeling so overwhelms Dean in this moment that he kind of hates himself, first for having hurt Cas, but now also for having cheated himself out of something good because he's a damn failure with a past more screwed up than an entire season of Dr. Phil.

They had had a connection, an undeniable chemistry that Dean has never felt with anyone else. How bad could it have been to stick around, or at least leave his number? It's not like by giving his number he would be promising to marry the guy or something. In fact, they wouldn't have even had to do the whole dating thing. They could have hung out at least, maybe gone for a couple beers sometime or something. Cas seemed like a reasonable guy. He would probably have been okay with it if Dean had said the sex was nice, but he wanted to go back to just being friends.

But would Dean have been okay with that? Would he have been content to just be friends? Obviously, they hadn't been able to keep their hands off each other for a single evening, so he thinks maybe the friends only thing would be a losing battle.

Dean had wondered to himself the other day if he would have stayed if Cas had been a woman, but that was the wrong question. Cas hadn't needed to be someone else. Cas had been perfect just the way he was, with all his offbeat and strangely sexy weirdness.

Dean was the one who had needed to be someone else. Dean's issues are his own, and if he can't get past them, then he simply isn't good enough for someone like Cas. He'd just weigh Cas down with all his baggage, and Cas would soon see that Dean isn't worth his time or trouble. There's no sense in starting something when that's the inevitable end, no matter how much Dean is beginning to realize he wishes he could have.

If only Dean had been someone else, he could have stayed. He would have stayed.

But he's not someone else. He's just Dean Winchester, and he's no good for anyone. Maybe that's really what he had been running from—his own inadequacy.

That's it, Dean is so done with this navel gazing. He needs to get to sleep so he can be a productive and functional adult in the morning. Mooning after some guy he'll probably never see again is not going to help that in the slightest.

He does eventually drift off to sleep again, but it's restless and plagued by vague, frustrating dreams wherein he's always searching for something he can neither identify nor find. The sleep probably does him more harm than good.

 

The next day, Thursday, they've got a '99 Altima on the lift, and Bobby is working alongside Dean while Benny is on his lunch hour.

"Torque wrench," Dean says, surgeon-like.

"Scalpel," Bobby says, handing him the wrench.

Dean rolls his eyes at the teasing, but he can't retort with any sassy comeback, because at just that moment, he yawns hugely. It's about the two-dozenth time he's yawned today. Nothing escapes Bobby's canny attention, so Dean knows better than to think Bobby hasn't noticed, but thankfully Bobby hasn't called him on it yet. He shakes the sleepiness from his eyes and commences his torquing.

"You know, after I met Karen," Bobby begins out of the blue, talking about his late wife, "things started heatin' up, gettin' pretty serious, and it spooked me. So I picked a fight with her over some dumb-ass thing, and it looked like that might be all she wrote."

Dean freezes his motion, suspicious about the point of this story. Bobby's not one to just talk about his past, or anything personal, for that matter. He's always very private, and generally he's not one to dwell upon or even acknowledge emotions. It's no wonder Dean is the same way; between Bobby and John, Dean had little chance of being anything other than emotionally stunted.

(How Sam ended up being the bleeding-heart, in-touch-with-his-emotions sort is a wonder to Dean. Maybe it's because of how Dean always tried to shelter Sam from some of the harsher realities of their lives, but he doesn't like to give himself credit for anything like that. He only did what any older brother would do. It's also his responsibility as an older brother to tease Sam endlessly, calling him Samantha and the like, but the truth is, he wouldn't want Sam to be any other way.)

"I was just gonna walk away," Bobby continues, "but she was havin' none of it. She came after me, called me on it. I tried to tell her I was no good for her, but she told me that was her call to make. All I needed to do was love her. And hell, if she wasn't right."

What the _hell._ Dean turns toward the older man, crossing his arms and bristling. "You been talking to Benny?" he demands. "Because he don't know crap." Dean makes one vague confession about apologies owed, and somehow it blows up into _this._ He said nothing about any relationship or non-relationship or _anything._ There's no reason in the world Bobby should know that this story of his is all too timely. They're both too damn smart for their own good. It feels like an invasion of privacy, and it pisses Dean off.

"Benny and I talk," Bobby says serenely, not rising to the bait of Dean's incendiary tone, "and most of it ain't about you, so don't get your panties all in a twist."

"Yeah, whatever. What's your point, Bobby?"

"I gotta have a point now? A man can't just tell a story about his past to the boy he thinks of like a son? What is this, Nazi Germany? I gotta explain everything I say now?" Bobby's volume gradually rises throughout the outburst—probably his way of deflecting the embarrassment of sharing something personal.

"Fine," Dean says. "You done?"

"No, I ain't done! Point is—" Dean doesn't get to point out that there was a point after all, because that's when the phone rings.

"Sorry, Bobby, you can tell me the point later." Bobby grumbles something unintelligible as Dean sprints to the phone in his office.

"Winchester Auto," Dean answers.

"Hello, I'm calling for a Mr. Dean Winchester?" a woman's professional voice says.

"Speaking."

The words that follow nearly make Dean's heart stop in his chest. "Hello, Mr. Winchester, this is Linda from First National. I'm calling regarding a loan offer that has been arranged on your behalf."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapter's a little late. But it's the longest one yet by over a thousand words, so there's my excuse.
> 
> Also, thanks for the wonderful response to the last chapter. I'm so glad my little story is being met with such enthusiasm, and I hope I can continue to please.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Art by the talented [purgatoryjar](http://purgatoryjar.tumblr.com/).

Saturday night, Castiel sits ensconced in blinking lights on a folding chair, and he isn't enjoying himself.

Large company functions have never been his thing. In fact, people aren't really his thing, or more accurately, he's not very good at people. He likes them, and they always seem to like him (rather inexplicably, he thinks), but he never knows how to interact with them. Inevitably, he'll get to talking to someone, and he'll say something incredibly stupid and embarrassing and ruin his chances for anything beyond casual acquaintanceship.

Today, Castiel is even less inclined than usual to make attempts at being social. His emotional turmoil of Thursday has faded to a dull ache, but it's still there, and he's just not in the mood to put up a front. He takes a sip of his Coke; there's a cash bar, but he's made a point to steer clear of it. Just the thought of an alcoholic beverage still makes his stomach churn unhappily. The first thing he had done when he had gotten home yesterday was to pour the remaining liquor from his binge the day before down the sink, not that there had been much left of it.

He watches Balthazar schmoozing his way around the room, and he shakes his head, torn between feeling amused and annoyed. The idea of Balthazar and himself being a couple is really rather ridiculous. They'd be such a poor match.

"Hello, Clarence," a syrupy voice says in his ear. Castiel sighs. He knows that voice, and he closes his eyes briefly in a silent entreaty for strength.

Meg Masters is the receptionist for their company, and their relationship goes back several years, but he's never quite been able to define its nature. She's certainly not a _friend,_ but she's not an enemy either. For a long time, he had thought she had his name wrong, but when he finally corrected her, she had laughed and explained that no, she was just teasing him. Since he has the name of an angel, the name is a reference to an angel character in a classic Christmas movie with whom Castiel apparently shares a certain degree of social ineptitude. He's never been sure whether or not he should be offended by the name.

Meg has made an art of flirting with Castiel over the years, and he's never been quite sure how much of it is just to tease him and how much of it is actually serious. They had kissed once a couple years ago at an office party. They'd both had just enough to drink to make making out in front of everyone seem like a fine idea, but not enough to drink that they ended up taking it any further. She had made the first move, but not to be outdone, he had turned the tables on her, shoved her against a nearby wall, and given her a run for her money. That had been the extent of it, and before Thursday, that incident had been the closest to drunk he'd ever been.

Castiel admits he has a soft spot for the sharp-tongued girl and her witty brand of cynicism, but he doesn't think he could ever be in a serious relationship with her. There have been moments where she said or did something that made him think she may not actually be a very nice person.

Nonetheless, he's normally not so reluctant to speak to her, but after Balthazar's revelation of the bet he'd had with Meg regarding Castiel's sex life (or lack thereof), her seeking him out can mean nothing good. He's still angry with them both for that effrontery.

He watches her warily as she circles around. Grabbing a chair, she plops it down in front of him and straddles it, crossing her arms across its back and resting her chin on them. She smirks at him, cat-like, and he feels every bit the mouse.

Sure enough, Meg zeroes in on the subject. "Balthazar just handed me a fifty, and he said I had you to thank. So little Castiel has finally become a man! I'm so proud." Her tone is mockingly sweet, and he glares at her.

Castiel doesn't have the energy to maintain his indignation for long, however, and soon his shoulders slump. "Meg, please, not now," he pleads wearily. "I have no desire to talk about it again."

"What's your boyfriend's name?" she asks, undeterred.

"Dean. And he's not my boyfriend. I doubt I'll ever see him again." And oh, if it doesn't hurt twice as much to say it as it does to think it.

"Ouch," says Meg. "Harsh. Was he that bad in the sack? Not that _you'd_ know."

"Quite the opposite. Not that it's any of your business," he replies, matching her sass.

"Were _you_ that bad in the sack, then?"

"I don't _think_ so…." Castiel mumbles. Great. Now he's going to worry about that. Dean hadn't complained, but he hadn't complimented either.

"I'm sure you were just fine." Meg sounds far from sincere, and she chuckles. It does nothing to reassure Castiel. "So why the parting of ways? Did you skedaddle, or did he?"

"He did," Castiel says, rather glumly, and he wishes Meg would skedaddle. This conversation is not what he needs. He already got everything off his chest with Balthazar, and he's never going to move on if he keeps having to rehash the incident. Although, admittedly, part of him doesn't want to move on. Part of him is still stubbornly clinging to that tenderness he had felt for Dean, that had felt so right and beautiful.

"And you didn't want him to," Meg declares with a smug smile, like this is a delightful piece of news.

"No," Castiel admits, looking down at his hands. She's going to come to her own conclusions anyway, so he might as well be honest.

Meg stares at him in that disconcerting, predatory way she has. "Oh, sweetie, you've got it bad!" she says, and although the voice and the tone are all wrong, for a moment Castiel imagines it's Anna saying it. He misses her so much in that instance, it's like it was yesterday she was laughing at him as he stressed over what color to paint the living room. What would she have to say about all this?

"So if the sex was good," Meg continues, jolting Castiel out of his reverie of grief for his lost sister, "and you wanted to make Dean-o your boy toy, how come you two aren't off breaking a bed or six somewhere?"

"I don't think he's comfortable with the idea of being with a man," Castiel says, and he's not sure why he's telling this to _Meg,_ of all people. The sudden memory of Anna must have caused him to let his guard down.

Meg rolls her eyes. "So you both have dicks.  They obviously like each other.  Big deal."

"Yes, well, tell him that," says Castiel, a little surlier than intended. As he had concluded before, he's not angry at Dean for that.

"That's your job, Casanova. If this Dean makes your little virgin heart go pitter-pat, then chase after him. Saddle up the white horse and go get your man."

How Castiel wishes he could take that advice! But he knows it would be pointless. He doubts Dean would react well to being pursued; he needs to settle things within himself in his own time and not be pressured into something. Dean would need to chase Castiel, or nothing further can happen between them. But the chances of that happening, Castiel fears, are little to none. "That's not an option."

"Why the hell not?" Meg demands. "You like him, and since he did the horizontal tango with you, he obviously likes you too. Maybe he just needs a reminder so he can get over his homophobia."

"I've caused enough trouble for him. I wanted so badly to help, but I think I just made it worse," Castiel says, then he hurries on, not wanting to stop to explain any of Dean's troubles to Meg. "Besides, even if I wanted to go find him, I wouldn't know how. I don't even know his last name. All I know is that he owns an auto shop, he has one employee named Benny, and he was going to get off the bus at Second. That's not much to go on. I'm afraid I won't be seeing Dean again, Meg."

"There are always ways, Clarence, but hey, it's your broken heart and not mine. Just don't boo-hoo to me, 'cause I'm fresh out of band-aids." She stands and pats him on the head. Castiel frowns at her, not appreciating the patronizing gesture. She just laughs, but as she looks at him, her expression shifts to something unreadable. "Huh. Even without your v-card, you're still the same unicorn."

Castiel doesn't know what to say to that, but it makes him somewhat self-conscious.

"Sorry it didn't work out," Meg says, almost sincere for once, and Castiel has a strange notion that she might not be talking about him and Dean. Before he can give it any further thought, she's gone.

Castiel glances at his watch and groans. It's still early, and the festivities are really just getting started. But maybe he can slip out shortly; he doubts he'll be missed, and at least he made an appearance.  Already, he's just about reached capacity for social interaction this evening, and other than formality, there's no reason for him to stick around much longer at this party he wasn't keen on attending in the first place.

There will be a white elephant gift exchange later, but he's not participating—he has no skill at choosing gifts, and his selections in years past were always snubbed. Personally, he doesn't see why someone _wouldn't_ want a guinea pig. He had nearly come home from the pet store with a guinea pig for himself as well, and would have, if he hadn't been in the middle of some major remodeling in his house. But Mr. Adler, his boss and the lucky new owner of the squeaking, furry rodent, hadn't spoken to him civilly for at least a month, and the next year a "no living creatures" clause was added to the rules.

At least he should make the rounds and wish everyone happy holidays before making his escape. He reaches for his green solo cup of Coke he'd set on the nearby sideboard and finds it empty but for ice. He'll get a refill, and since he's here already, he might as well take advantage of the free food. He'll grab a few sausage balls and some cheese cubes, he'll quickly take care of the pleasantries, and then he'll go home.

That settled, he stands and begins to make his way across the room through the press of people. He hasn't gotten far when someone taps him on the shoulder. Turning toward the culprit, he sees a petite, curly-haired brunette who looks to be in her mid-thirties. She works on a different floor from Castiel, and he's met her on a couple occasions, but he doesn't know her well.

"I'm sorry—Novak, isn't it?" she asks.

"Yes. Ms. Brenner, right?" He observes the absence of a wedding ring on her finger, but he doesn't want to presume.

"Yes, but please, call me Angela," the woman says, her voice bubbly. "I swear I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but I was walking past you and Miss Masters just a little while ago and heard you say the name 'Benny,' and it caught my ear. It's not a name you hear every day, you know? Then, when you said 'Dean' a moment later, I just had to ask. Were you by any chance talking about Benny Lafitte and Dean Winchester?"

"I honestly don't know," Castiel admits, but his heartbeat quickens at the thought that she might know his Dean, distracting him from any worry he might have that Angela heard more than just the names. "I just met Dean, and I don't know his surname. Dean owns an auto business and Benny works for him, but beyond that—"

"I thought so," Angela says, interrupting him in her excitement. "I know them! Or, at least, I've met them. See, my sister is dating Benny, and when I had some car trouble recently, she told me to take it to their shop, Winchester Auto. Isn't that a funny coincidence?"

"Indeed." So his name is Dean _Winchester._ It suits him, Castiel thinks. He has to make great effort not to react overmuch to this news; the hollow left in his chest by Dean's leaving aches with renewed intensity.

"I had dinner with my sister and Benny just last week, in fact," Angela prattles on. "He seems like a really good guy. He treats my sister very well, from all that I've seen."

Castiel can't help but ask. "What was your impression of Dean?"

"I only spoke to him the once, and he's a gigantic flirt, but he seemed very efficient, and he certainly knows his business. My car hasn't run so well in years. But according to my sister, to hear Benny talk about Dean, he might as well be a saint. Apparently Dean saved Benny's life a few years back, and he gave him this job when he was down and out, and he's been training him and everything. It's such a shame about the shop's financial troubles—oh, but did you know?"

Castiel nods. "Yes, it's a great shame."

"It truly is!" Angela exclaims. "My sister says Benny says he's certain Dean's been shorting himself on pay just so he can pay Benny, and he's been working himself to the bone. I sure hope they can turn things around. I hate to hear of people struggling."

Castiel had already come to care for Dean a great deal more than he should have been able to in such a short time, but with this new perspective, somehow, impossibly, his heart swells even more with affection for this man, this good, selfless, hard-working man. If only there was some way Castiel might help him, but surely, with the way things ended up, that's beyond the scope of his abilities now, if indeed there would ever have been anything meaningful he could have done for Dean.

In any case, he's grateful for this little intervention of fate that made him and Angela cross paths. It's helped solidify his conviction of Dean's character. After Castiel's initial bout of anger, he'd convinced himself again in words of Dean's goodness, but to hear someone else say it makes his certainty all the stronger. "It was serendipitous that you walked past when you did, Angela. Thank you."

Angela laughs, a pleasant, tinkling sound. "I'm not sure what I did, Novak, but whatever it was, you're welcome."

She starts to walk away, but Castiel calls her back. "Angela?"

"Yes?"

"Please don't mention this conversation to your sister or anyone."

Angela furrows her brow at him, and he sees curiosity simmering in her eyes. But she doesn't ask the question he knows she wants to; instead, she simply smiles. "I won't say a word."

He goes about his business as planned after that, but he's too distracted by this new information to maintain even _his_ usual level of social skill. After he gets a few weird looks for his apparently odd contributions to small talk, he decides it's time to throw in the towel and go home.

 

Dean's predicament weighs heavily on Castiel's mind on his bus ride home, and it continues to trouble him as he heats a couple frozen burritos for a late supper. The more he thinks, the more disappointed in himself he becomes. He's been selfish. He's been wallowing in his own hurt for the last three days, when Dean is the one who has been suffering all along. Dean just lost his father, and he stands to lose the business he's worked so hard to build. Those are much bigger things than Castiel's own petty heartbreak.

It was undeniably unkind of Dean to have left like he did—Castiel isn't denying that.  But Dean had had no idea of the extent of Castiel's feelings and couldn't be expected to act accordingly. He had at least apologized with his note, and Castiel can understand if he had panicked. They had moved too fast.

When they had touched, Castiel had wanted to make it about Dean, wanted to show Dean just how valuable he is. He had wanted to take care of him. But he had gotten so caught up in the moment—in the sensations, the novelty of it all, the overwhelming intensity of his own feelings—that he had lost sight and had likely misjudged the situation entirely. He had done Dean a disservice, and his actions had essentially been infanticide to their newborn friendship. He should have known better, should have been able to stop.

Yes, they are both at fault.

Part of the pain Castiel is feeling now, he realizes, is not his own. The thought of Dean struggling and failing, the thought of him losing yet another thing dear to his heart when he's lost so much in his young life already (he'd said he was only twenty-seven, hadn't he?)—it makes Castiel ache for him. Castiel had wanted to help Dean when they were together, but he had been unable to. If only there was some way he could help Dean now, from afar. If he could help him in some tangible way, something more than just to offer comfort as he had first thought, then it might soothe his own wounded heart. It's all he can do for Dean now, anyway—knowing how to find Dean now makes no difference to his resolve not to try to reconnect.

But what can he do? Dean needs a loan, and Castiel doesn't have the kind of money that could help him (nor would Dean accept a loan from him if he did—he's certain of that). Castiel makes a decent living at his job, and although his father is not fabulously wealthy, he had done well enough to set up small but solid trust funds for all the Novak children. But most of Castiel's savings and all of his trust fund money (save a couple tiny investments that still provide a monthly trickle of cash) had gone into paying off his house, which he is quite proud to own, and remodeling it. It's his only substantial asset.

Owning a home is just the sort of collateral that could allow someone to secure a business loan with a bank, but Castiel isn't the one who needs the loan. Dean's business cannot benefit from Castiel's assets.

Unless….

But that's crazy, isn't it? Is there even precedent for it? Castiel isn't well-versed on the ins and outs of this sort of business finance. He may be an accountant, but he typically deals with things like tax records that are fairly routine (if sometimes convoluted).

But with the right sort of documentation and paperwork, it should be possible, shouldn't it?

If Castiel, with his flawless credit and his house as collateral, were to apply for a startup loan, he would have a good chance of being approved. Barring that, he could probably secure some sort of personal loan, or even as a last resort go the route of a mortgage. If those funds could then somehow be funneled to Dean and his business, with Dean being responsible for the payments, then it could work. Castiel would be able to save Dean's business from folding.

He could potentially do something similar in a less roundabout way by being a cosigner, but that option lacks the anonymity that this would offer, and as he had concluded before, Dean would never accept the help any other way.

And anonymity is crucial here for another reason. This is not some ill-advised and manipulative attempt to win Dean back, or rather over—it's not like he was ever Castiel's in the first place. Castiel doesn't want anyone to be able to accuse him of trying to buy Dean's love. That's not what this is about.

Yes, this could work. There are undoubtedly a hundred things he's not taking into consideration, and it would likely require a written business plan from Dean to finalize the arrangement, but it should be _possible._ But how might he go about it? Since it's something Castiel assumes is rather unusual, he doubts he could simply walk into the bank and negotiate it. He'd need to have everything sorted first—all the details worked out, paperwork filled out, et cetera—before a loan officer would even give it consideration. For that, Castiel assumes he'd need an attorney.

And it just so happens he knows one.

Castiel groans. He hates the thought of calling Michael and ingratiating himself to his older brother after years of rocky relations and nonexistent communication, but Michael is undeniably just the right person to help him.

How ironic that he feels more apprehension about speaking to his own brother than he does about risking his assets for someone who is, essentially, a stranger. It shakes him right out of his trance-like contemplation. He's been staring at his empty plate, lost in thought, for an indeterminable amount of time. At what time did he sit down to supper in the first place? He notes the late hour now, and forcing himself to get up, he cleans up after his meal and heads to his bedroom to ready himself for bed.

 

As he washes his face and brushes his teeth, objections play through his head, taking on the voices of those he knows: Michael, Anna, Balthazar, Gabriel, and even his father. He can so clearly imagine what they'd all have to say to him (and most of it is pretty harsh), but he's only uneasy about how he'd respond to them. Oddly enough, he's at peace with his plan.

Foremost among the objections are two points.

One, it's a huge risk, and it _is,_ undeniably. If all goes well, Castiel wouldn't be out a single cent, but if something goes wrong and Dean's business still doesn't make it, it's _Castiel's_ assets on the line. He's the one who would stand to lose everything in the event of a default. So yes, it's a huge risk, but somehow it doesn't _feel_ like a risk at all. Castiel isn't sure whence his confidence in Dean stems. Logically, he hasn't known Dean long enough to develop any sort of trust in him, and any seedling trust he had felt in their time together should have been shattered. But he did, and it hasn't.

Two, it's borderline obsessive, and maybe it is. Castiel isn't sure how Dean's welfare became so central to his world, and he's not sure what that says about him. He has _issues,_ probably, and is remarkably lonely and starved for meaningful connections. But somehow, the thought of helping Dean gives him a feeling of purpose. Maybe this is why they met. Maybe Castiel is an instrument of fate in turning things around for this man who has done nothing but give selflessly his entire life but has only ever gotten hard breaks in return.

Castiel knows all the objections any reasonable person would have to his idea, and he acknowledges their validity. And honestly, he has no good answers. To anyone, this would look crazy. Maybe it is crazy. Maybe Castiel has lost it; maybe he's unstable. But he doesn't care. Despite the fact that good sense would find every reason not to go through with it and not a single one to proceed, it doesn't sway his resolve.

Nonetheless, he'll sleep on it. If by tomorrow he still feels no reservations about proceeding, he'll call Michael.

 

With a deep exhale, Castiel replaces his phone on the cradle. That…could have gone worse, he supposes. At least it's settled, or it will be, once Michael gets into his office Monday morning and starts on the paperwork.

He hadn't given Michael the details about Dean; he'd only said that Dean is a friend whose business, due to unfortunate circumstances beyond his control, is in need of financial assistance. As expected, Michael had tried to talk him out of it, but Castiel had been resolute, and Michael had finally given in, albeit skeptically.

He'd given in, that is, after Castiel had agreed to visit home.

That's a weekend that will undoubtedly prove to be less than pleasant. Castiel doesn't doubt that his two eldest brothers will do their manipulative best to win him over to their "side" of the family fissure—how ironic, when their quarrels helped create the wedge in the first place. They'll vilify Gabriel, and they'll even malign Anna in that underhanded way they have—not even the dead are safe from their agendas. Castiel's brothers are opposites in so many ways, but other traits leave no question that they are twins.

Their father will just sit by and let it all happen, if he even deigns to be there.

Oh yes, Castiel is _so_ looking forward to this visit. At least he had managed to wiggle his way out of visiting on Christmas. He's pretty certain he couldn't handle his family's idea of holiday cheer.

No matter. It's a small price to pay if his plan succeeds. Already relief is seeping into his bones, settling his nerves, calming his tumultuous emotions, and clearing his head. He feels lighter somehow, like by removing most of the burden from Dean's shoulders he's lessened the load on his own. Yes, this is the right choice. He smiles to himself.

He had eaten breakfast before making the call, and the call took the better part of an hour, so the morning is half gone already. Sunday is laundry day, and there's ironing to be done after that, and the bathrooms are due for a good scrub too. If he wants to get all that done and still have time to curl up with a book tonight, he ought to get moving. He goes into the laundry room off the kitchen and starts the washer before heading to his bathroom to empty the hamper, in good spirits for the first time in several days.

 

The whites are in the dryer and he's just put the colors in the wash when his phone rings. The shrill sound surprises him. He doesn't get many phone calls in the first place, and he's not expecting one now. Michael should have no reason to call him back before tomorrow, and telemarketers don't usually call on Sundays. It's probably a wrong number.

"Novak residence," he answers, hoping the caller will realize his mistake right away.

"Hey, kiddo," a familiar voice says.

Castiel almost drops the phone. "G…Gabriel?" he stammers. "What are you…? Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Gabriel assures him. "What, a guy can't call his little bro just to chat?"

"Of course you can," Castiel says. "But you _don't."_

"Sheesh, way to make me feel guilty right off. But I guess you're right anyway, because I _am_ calling for a reason."

"Yes?" Castiel prompts. He really is glad to hear from Gabriel, even if he has been angry with him for distancing himself since Anna's death. Nonetheless, he's wary as to the reason for Gabriel's call, and he has a hunch he knows what prompted it. The timing is too close to be coincidental.

Gabriel's next words confirm Castiel's suspicions. "Okay, so, I get this cryptic email from Michael—I didn't even know the bastard had my email address—and he tells me about this weird-ass call he got from you about some loan deal you want his help with, which you gotta admit sounds pretty nuts-o, even for you. So he tells me to give you a call and make sure you haven't gone off your rocker. Says you didn't listen to him, but maybe _I_ could talk some sense into you. So gimme the scoop. What's this all about?"

"It won't do you any good," Castiel says, resorting to petulance and defensiveness rather than make any attempt at justification—he spent enough time and effort on the latter with Michael. "Say what you like, but my mind is made up. I know it sounds strange to you both, but it only has to make sense to me. Please just trust me, Gabriel."

"Whoa, whoa, okay, back up," says Gabriel. "I didn't say I was going to try to talk you out of it. I only said _Michael_ told me to. Like I've ever listened to him before, ha! I really don't have a clue what's going on, but I'm pretty damn sure there's more to it than what you told dear big brother. So I repeat: Gimme the scoop!"

Castiel knows it's pointless to resist. Gabriel will wheedle the truth out of him one way or another; it's one of his specialties. "Very well," he says with a defeated sigh. His chores, he decides, are a lost cause at this point, so he heads to the living room to make himself comfortable. He takes a deep, fortifying breath and plunges into the story yet again. Gabriel being his brother and the most trusted person in his life (despite the distance of recent years), he leaves very little out.

Gabriel whistles at the conclusion. "Well, that's a sordid little tale. But baby bro, it doesn't really explain the loan business. I mean, okay, you like the guy, he sends you, gets you hot with a side of bothered, the usual Hallmark Channel crap. And I get that he gave you a pretty good sob story, and then this coworker chick—is she hot, by the way?—she kinda confirmed it, and hey, maybe he _is_ a great guy most of the time. Still doesn't change the fact that he was a fuck and run, Cassie. He didn't even have the decency to say goodbye. You're really going to trust him with this, when your beloved house that you've worked so hard on hangs in the balance?"

"He's trustworthy," Castiel says adamantly. "He won't fail."

"There's no way in hell you can be sure of that," Gabriel says. "I mean, are you even hearing yourself? This joker deflowers you and pulls a disappearing act, and now you want to put your home on the line to fund his mom-and-pop shop. I'm sorry, Castiel, but this sure does sound like one for the funny farm. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't be flying out there and dragging your trench coat–covered ass to see a shrink."

"I think I love him," Castiel says, and it's unbelievably liberating to say it.

The line crackles with static as Gabriel groans loudly. "You didn't just say that. Tell me you didn't just say that."

Castiel tells him nothing of the sort. "I think I love him," he repeats, "and I want that to mean something more than just sorrow and loss."

The washer buzzes but Castiel ignores it, and the sound fades, leaving only the muted susurration of his own breaths and Gabriel's in his ear. Gabriel is silent on the line for a long while, and when he speaks again, his voice is gentle in a way Castiel is unused to hearing from him. "Listen, kiddo, I know it's been tough with Anna gone, and I haven't exactly been there for you."

"You haven't," Castiel agrees, seeing no point in equivocating. "But that's not what this is about. Yes, I'm lonely. Really damn lonely, in fact, and I thought at first that that's why I got so attached. But that's not the case. After making this decision, I'm certain that I feel the way I do simply because I think he's someone worth my regard. If this is the only way I can ever do anything about it, then I'm going to do it." And it is clear to him now; maybe it's only just now that it's truly clicked, but he knows that what he feels is not because of who _he_ is (or isn't, as the case may be), but because of who _Dean_ is.

Surprisingly, Gabriel laughs, clear and hearty and free of derision. "Castiel, you're either the kindest person I know, or the stupidest. I can't decide which."

"Shut up."

"Now, is that any way to talk to the guy who's gonna be bailing you out of a mess in a few months?"

Gabriel would do that for him? The generous statement blindsides Castiel, and his voice catches with sudden emotion. "I-it's not going to come to that, Gabriel, but even if it did, you know I wouldn't ask for anything like that from you."

"I know," Gabriel says. "Shoot, you never ask for anything. Not even for me to return your calls once in a while. I'm a coward, Castiel. Always have been, probably always will be. I turn tail and get out of Dodge; it's my M.O. You're far braver than I'll ever be." And just like that, he's done with the sentimentality and self-deprecation. Castiel had nearly forgotten how talking to Gabriel can often give him the conversational equivalent of whiplash. "So hey, this Dean character sounds like a total…what was your word for it? Assbutt?"

"That was one time, Gabriel."

"It was enough," Gabriel declares smugly. "So yeah, he sounds like a total _assbutt_  to me, but it's your call. If you want to risk everything on him, I'm not gonna stop you. I'll tell Michael to stop being a grade-A douchenozzle and give you some credit."

"Thank you, Gabriel."

"Hey, don't mention it. I'm just that sort of guy."

"Oh, undoubtedly," says Castiel, with as much teasing sarcasm as he can muster.

Gabriel snorts, but then he pauses for another moment, contemplative. "Hey, uh, you've changed, kiddo. Almost like—and don't take this the wrong way—but it's almost like you're more human or something."

"Thanks a lot."

"No, like, I don't know, warmer, or something. It's good. I'm a little envious. I also just threw up in my mouth a little."

"Maybe you just need to get your heart broken," Castiel says.

There's a burst of laughter that makes Castiel pull the phone away from his ear with a wince. It wasn't _that_ funny.

"I'm gonna come see you soon, okay? And who knows, I might even try to answer your calls once in a while."

Castiel believes him. For once, he really has hopes that things might change, that at least one part of his fractured family might be returned to him. "You're welcome anytime," he says.

"Bye, kid. And oh yeah, congrats on finally losing it." Without further ado, there's a soft click, and the line goes dead.

Despite the infuriating parting comment, Castiel's eyes suddenly sting with the threat of tears, and he rubs them out of existence before they can fall, although in truth they'd be happy ones. For the first time in nearly three years, Castiel feels like he has his brother back, and he has Dean Winchester to thank. And that's worth more to him than all the money and houses in the world.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the talented [purgatoryjar](http://purgatoryjar.tumblr.com/).

"Hello, Mr. Winchester, this is Linda from First National. I'm calling regarding a loan offer that has been arranged on your behalf."

Surely Dean isn't hearing right. It's probably just some sort of routine follow-up call, although he can't fathom _why;_ he had been told in no uncertain terms that his application had lacked anything that would inspire any sort of confidence in a lender, and that he was not eligible for consideration. It must be a mistake, then. There's no way she can mean anything about money being offered to him. "Excuse me, ma'am," Dean says brusquely, because why do they have to call and rub it in? "I was down there last week, and my application was declined. Has something changed?"

"I don't know anything about that, Mr. Winchester," Linda says. "This is not in regard to any previous inquiry you may have made. To oversimplify, an arrangement has been made in which you have been named as the beneficiary. It's unusual, but the paperwork is all in order. I'm calling to set up an appointment at your earliest convenience where we may go over the details and get everything squared away."

Dean is not only at a loss for words, but a loss for _thought_ as well. His mind goes completely blank. "Uh," he says intelligently.

"Mr. Winchester?" Linda prompts when no other answer is forthcoming. "Is there a time that would be convenient for you?"

"Time," Dean echoes.

"Yes, a time," Linda says, amusement creeping into her voice.

Finally, it sinks in. A loan. Someone has made it possible for Winchester Auto to receive a loan. This means…well, it pretty much means everything.

"Linda, I could kiss you right now. You bet your damn boots there's a convenient time. Sorry," Dean says, catching himself in the profanity too late.

"It's quite all right," Linda chuckles, her professional tone bleeding to something friendlier. "So when works for you?"

"I can be down there in thirty minutes or less if you don't mind a little engine grease."

"Tell you what," Linda says amiably. "You come by at 2:30. That way I can take care of my 2:00 appointment, and you can take care of the grease."

"You got it. Tenth Street, right?"

"Yes."

"Oh, one more thing," Dean adds, realizing he nearly overlooked an important piece of this puzzle. "Can you tell me who I'm gonna have to name my firstborn after?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, but your benefactor has requested to remain anonymous."

"Huh," says Dean. "Okay. Uh, I'll see you at 2:30 then."

"I look forward to it," Linda says.

Dean hangs up and stares at the phone, only just now noticing the way his hands are shaking. Put a gun in his hands and him in front of a hardened criminal, and he's steady as a rock, but this…. He hadn't realized just how important this new life of his is to him until it had almost gone up in flames, just like his truncated childhood. He'd felt the fires, even gotten his toes burnt a bit, but he has been pulled from the inferno at the last minute. The relief is so all-encompassing it's making him weak in the knees.

He's grinning like an idiot when he walks back out to the garage. Bobby glances over at him from under the Altima and then does a rather comical double-take.

"What's got you lookin' like you won the lottery?"

"I kinda did," Dean says. "We got a loan."

Bobby doesn't jump for joy, but Bobby being Bobby, Dean expected that. He didn't expect Bobby to frown, however. "I don't mean to be a killjoy, but _how?_ What the hell did you do, boy?"

"I didn't do anything!"

"'Cause, damn it, Dean, if you've gotten mixed up with some loan shark or somethin', I promise you, it ain't worth it."

"It's nothing like that," says Dean. "I swear. This is one hundred percent above board. That was the bank. I don't know how; somebody pulled some strings or something. I'm going down there at 2:30 to work out the details."

Bobby's brow smooths with relief to hear that Dean hasn't had to sell his soul to make this happen, but he still looks skeptical. "Who's somebody?"

"No idea," Dean says. "They wouldn't tell me." A thought occurs to him then. "You sure you had nothing to do with this?"

"Wasn't me," Bobby says, shaking his head. "I don't know, Dean. It sure _sounds_ weird, but I sure hope it's true. I'm happy for you if it is."

"Yeah," says Dean. "Yeah, me too." Bobby has a point—it _is_ strange, but when Dean had spoken to Linda on the phone, not a single red flag had gone up in his mind. After years on the road coming into contact with all variety of unsavory characters, he prides himself on his sharp instincts.

This is legitimate. He's sure of it.

Overcome, he moves in for a hug, which Bobby returns after an uncomfortable pause and a huff or two.

At that moment, Benny returns from lunch. "I miss somethin'?" he asks, noticing the display of familial affection.

Dean pulls away, or maybe Bobby pushes him, but he's too happy to be embarrassed. If he's going to be caught in a chick flick moment, he might as well drag Benny in—as insurance against blackmail, if nothing else, so he walks over and hugs him too.

"What's with the love fest?" Benny asks with an awkward laugh when Dean lets him go.

"We've been saved," Dean says.

 

The next twenty-four hours pass in a frenzied but euphoric blur. The contract requires Dean to submit a business plan for review before the deal can be solidified, so Dean, Benny, and Bobby burn the midnight oil, and soon a rough plan starts to form that satisfies them all. The sooner the plan is submitted, the sooner the funds will come through.

The minute the money is theirs, Dean will start searching for a new hire. Bobby agrees to stay on until the new person is settled. Next, Dean will begin advertising again to ensure that they have enough business to keep the new person busy.

They list all the company's debts and develop what they feel is a reasonable timeline for paying them off. Past that projected period, Dean also notes the equipment upgrades he'd like to do.

Most exciting to Dean, he decides to contact the man about the Barracuda to see if he's still in the market. It's the boldest, riskiest element of his plans for the business, but it's the direction he wants to take, and he feels transparency is important. If eventually he can keep one restoration project on the books at all times, it should provide a nice boost to profitability in the long run. He'll have to budget for some additional targeted advertising to make that possible, and at some point he'll need to consider hiring more employees with specialized skills and purchase additional equipment in order to grow that part of the business, but it's a start.

On Friday, Dean spends the day refining the plan, budgeting, and trying to formulate all of the information into a cohesive, professional-sounding document. He's so engrossed (as well as mildly frustrated at his own lack of computer skills—the first minute he can afford to hire some office help, he's doing it) that he forgets entirely about Sam and Jess visiting. It's only when they call to say their plane has landed that he remembers. Had he thought of it in time, he could have gone to pick them up in Bobby's truck, but given the option now, they opt to just pay the cab fare instead of waiting. He would feel guilty about the whole thing, but his happiness about the loan is too pervasive.

The moment he hangs up the phone, Dean realizes he has a problem: too many people and not enough apartment. Sam and Jess will need John's old bedroom, which Bobby is currently occupying, and Dean's couch is much too small for Bobby to sleep on comfortably. The last thing Dean wants is for Bobby to have to go to a hotel when he's here offering his help for free, but fortunately, Benny solves the issue before Dean even finishes explaining it, offering his (much more appropriately sized) couch.

It's closing time anyway, so Dean calls it a day on time for once, and they all head to Dean's apartment to collect Bobby's things. Sam and Jess arrive mere minutes later.

Dean had waited to tell Sam and Jess the news so he would be able to see Sam's face. It doesn't disappoint. He beams with a joy that rivals Dean's own, and how Dean has missed his overgrown little brother and his overgrown heart! Sam swoops in for the second hug in under five minutes, and even Dean isn't hypocritical enough to tease him about it.

They all go out for dinner to celebrate, and Dean basks in the rarity of having all of his family (by blood or choice) together. Jess blows the wrapper off the end of her straw at him and hits him on the cheek, so he flings a fry at her in retaliation, which goes down her blouse. As she digs it out, Sam directs one of his trademark looks of disappointment, disapproval, and disgust at Dean, and Dean laughs like he hasn't laughed in a long time—but no, that's not true. He laughs like he hasn't laughed since last Wednesday. Some treacherous part of his mind tries to tell him that this little group is great, but surely there's room for expansion, and wouldn't it be nice if—

But he shuts that thought down, unwilling to entertain it for the time being, and he focuses his attention solidly back on his family.

Saturday morning, Dean enlists the help of law student Sam and English major Jess to help him polish the business plan, and by the time they call it complete, Dean feels more confident and excited about it than he expected.

All weekend they puzzle over who might be responsible for the arrangement, but they know few people with the means to have accomplished it, and the couple calls Dean makes turn out to be dead ends. The most plausible explanation anyone suggests is that Winchester Auto's savior is some connection of John's, unknown to Dean or Sam—an old army buddy, perhaps, helping the son of his friend in honor of the dead. Dean only wishes he could offer proper, face-to-face thanks, but he supposes the best way to express his gratitude anyway is to prove that the mystery person's faith in him is not misplaced. He's going to work harder than he's ever worked at anything, make prudent decisions and timely payments, and faithfully turn in written monthly progress reports (a request of his benefactor, to be relayed by the bank).

This time, they're going to make it, and they're going to be the best damn auto shop in town.

 

During those few days, the only thing that threatens to dampen Dean's spirits is something unforeseen and private. Watching his brother and his fiancée interact—the way they move around each other in an age-old familiar dance, the way they finish each other's sentences in the most cliché way possible, and most of all the love for each other that shines beacon-bright from their eyes—an awareness hits Dean abruptly that his brother has moved irrevocably apart from him. It's not to say that he and Sam can't be or aren't close, but they'll never have quite the same dynamic they had in the past. Sam has a life of his own now, no longer twined with Dean's like a mess of tangled vines but distinct and complete in itself.

Dean is happy for them—he truly is. He loves Jess and can't wait for her to be officially part of the family, but that's just the thing. In a few months, Dean's baby brother is going to be a married man, and in a few years, he might even be a father. The dichotomy of his feelings befuddles Dean, and he doesn't know how to deal with them.

Strange, how it's only hitting him now, when Sam has been off on his own for several years already, but Dean realizes that a small, subconscious part of himself must still have been foolishly clinging to the notion that Sam's life apart from Dean is only temporary, that it will run its course, and Sam will return to Dean like a small child whose great adventure as a runaway lasts only until hunger gnaws. But Sam is not a child anymore, and he needs Dean no longer as a caretaker but only as a friend. This must be how a parent with a newly emptied nest feels.

Time's evanescence tastes bittersweet on the tongue of Dean's heart.

From the wake of this revelation, another feeling blossoms, just as unsolicited and unwelcome, but equally important in Dean's emotional progression and well-being (if he's honest with himself).

He's alone, and he doesn't think he likes it anymore.

Dean has never wanted to be alone _forever,_ not really. He's told himself he's not cut out for relationships so many times, and he's always believed it. But there's still a small part of him that dreams that one day, maybe _just_ maybe, he'll have a shot at that apple pie life he's always made a point to scoff at.

For the first time in forever, he allows himself to envision it—the house, the yard, the _somebody._ The rare times in the past when he's entertained this fantasy, that somebody has always been a face—not blank, but just out of focus enough to be unidentifiable—on a cookie-cutter body, curvy, average-to-tall, with wavy dark hair. Dean may have admitted attraction to many different types of people over the years, but on the whole, he's always had a type. But this time, when he gives his mind free range for a moment, the figure at his side is markedly different and has a face he recognizes.

Both things—the abstract life and the specific somebody—terrify Dean in so many ways, but then Bobby's story from the other day springs up in his memory.  He had been angry at Bobby for the presumption (if a little amused at the man's obvious discomfort), but he finds it hard to be mad at him for it now.  In fact, after Thursday's news, he finds it hard to be mad at anyone right now, including himself.  Although on some level it galls Dean that he can't do it all on his own, he knows few businesses get their starts without some sort of outside financial assistance, and the loan, representing both an opportunity and someone's faith in him, has given him back that fragile sense of pride and confidence in himself that he had started to cultivate during the early days of the business. So this time, he doesn't run from his thoughts, doesn't try to come up with reasons why either thing—the life or the somebody—is something he can never have.  He doesn't examine the idea too closely just yet either, but _he doesn't run._

Dean goes in person to the bank with the document first thing Monday morning, and by Monday afternoon, it's official. Winchester Auto has been granted a loan.

 

The man with the 'Cuda is still very much interested, and Dean has the holiday bustle to thank for it, because the man says he hasn't had time to search for another shop to take the job. Since the car isn't in any condition to run, he says if Dean can arrange for the towing, it may be picked up whenever Dean is ready to begin work. Dean schedules to have it brought in later in the week.

The first "help wanted" ad circulates with Tuesday's paper, and the first reply is on the phone the very same afternoon. Dean arranges for the man to come in for an interview the following morning, and on Wednesday afternoon, another man shows up in person. The first applicant is too much of a know-it-all to be anything but obnoxious to work with and wants more money than Dean can pay him to boot, and the second applicant is pleasant enough but lacks skills up to Dean's standards. No more inquiries into the position come either via phone or in person, and by Friday afternoon, Dean is starting to get nervous about the search.

The sun is sinking low and glaring through the garage's west-facing windows, creating long shadows in the shop, when the bell announces a visitor. Dean pokes his head around the open door of his office to see a slim blonde standing just inside the shop. She looks about Sam's age or maybe a year or two younger.

Dean walks over to her, and he's about to turn on the patented Winchester Charm, but she beats him to the punch. "You Winchester?" she asks, sizing him up with a shrewd eye he didn't expect.

"Yes," he says.

"Jo Harvelle," she says, and she hands him a manila folder. "I'm here to apply for the job you advertised."

That's certainly the last thing he had expected when he saw her, but he opens the folder and looks over her information. Her résumé is in order, and she proves herself to be knowledgeable when Dean talks shop with her for a while. She has no relevant on-the-job experience, but she's just completed her associate degree, and the list of projects she's worked on is fairly impressive. Also appealing to Dean is the fact that she has both interest and some small experience in restoration work. She's almost as enthusiastic about the 'Cuda as Dean is.

Nonetheless, when he glances over her slender figure again, he still has some reservations. "Look," he says. "You seem to know your stuff, but we need someone who can do some heavy lifting around here. I just don't know that you'll be able to cut it."

"Because I'm a woman?" Jo demands.

"Well…." Dean hedges, realizing too late what he's stepped in. A low whistle comes from somewhere behind him, probably from Benny, but Dean doesn't turn around to confirm.

Jo makes a little humming noise of deliberation in her throat, and then she kicks him in the shin.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean howls amid the unapologetic snickering of his onlooking cohorts, and he hops absurdly as he grabs at his wounded limb.

Jo just cocks her head and glares him down, defiance in the jut of her chin and the gleam in her eyes.

Dean hires her.

 

That evening, Jess bulldozes Dean's previous ultimatum of not doing "the whole Christmas thing" and insists they get a tree. Dean, much to everyone's surprise and most of all his own, agrees. Bobby lends his truck, and the three of them pile in and drive around in search of a tree lot, since Jess insists that a real tree is the only way to go.

Christmas is only a few days away, so the selection is rather sad, at least according to Jess—Sam and Dean don't have the first notion about what the criteria for a good Christmas tree might be. Every tree looks the same as the last to them, but they hem and haw and walk judgmental circles around what feels like dozens of trees just to humor her (although behind her back they roll their eyes and mime shooting themselves in the head), but they eventually find one that Jess deems not too pathetic. They throw the tree in the truck bed, and then Jess marches them through the nearest Walmart to pick out decorations and lights and all the other mystifying items needed. Dean had no idea the whole thing was so complicated.

While Jess is lost in what Dean silently dubs Ornament Hell and Sam is momentarily distracted, Dean manages to give them the slip long enough do a little surreptitious shopping. If they're going to have a tree, it needs at least a few gifts under it. And okay, maybe he's getting into the Christmas spirit just a little. So sue him. Winchester Auto's financial troubles may have been allayed, but Dean's own funds are still pretty tight (he had been privately relieved that Sam and Jess had won the "who's paying for the Christmas tree" argument), so he can't spend a lot, but he can at least get everyone one small gift.

He hardly has to think about what to get Bobby, but he can't get it at Walmart. Tomorrow Dean will go to a liquor store to get him a bottle of whiskey—the good kind that comes in a box, not the cheap stuff that Bobby usually drinks. Bobby will consider it a real treat.

One down, two to go.

Dean ends up wandering the jewelry section for Jess. Girls like jewelry, right? Dean is so far out of his element here; thinking back, he can't remember ever having bought an actual gift for any girl. He finally recruits the help of an obliging female employee, and together they pick out a necklace in Dean's price range: a delicate silver chain with a stylized dragonfly pendant inset with several small blue crystals. He doesn't know much about this sort of thing, but he thinks it suits Jess. Pleased with his selection, he thanks the lady and sets out in search of something for Sam.

His cell rings in the middle of his browsing; Sam and Jess are done shopping for ornaments and are wondering where he ran off to. He tells them to sit tight and not come looking for him. Sam huffs in annoyance and tells him to hurry up.

He pokes around some more and finally finds one of those Newton's Cradle things, which makes him laugh because it seems like just the sort of useless thing future big-time lawyer Sam needs in his future posh office, and it's inexpensive, so Dean grabs it. It doesn't seem quite enough, though. Dean wracks his brain trying to come up with another more serious gift—something Sam likes or that will be useful to him. He blanks. If it was just Sam and Dean on the road like the old days, they wouldn't be exchanging gifts in the first place, but if for some odd reason they did, the gifts would probably be something like motor oil and skin mags. But somehow, with Jess here, and the tree, and their still-new, normal lives, that doesn't seem right anymore.

That's when it hits him. He has something in his possession that Sam might like to have, something that might mean a lot to his brother. When their father died, Sam, being a student, had only been able to visit briefly, and consequently he wasn't around when Dean started sorting and boxing John's few belongings. Among these was his wallet, which Dean had set aside and eventually stashed in one of the drawers in his bedroom. John had never been a sentimental person, but he had loved his family dearly, and in the wallet he had kept a few pictures: one of his wife soon after they met, one of them together on their wedding day, one of each of his sons as infants, and one of all four of them together, taken shortly before Mary's death.

It hardly counts as a Christmas present—after all, Sam has as much right to it as Dean does—but nonetheless, Sam will find it valuable, and now seems as good a time as any to give it to him.

That settled, Dean smiles to himself, feeling proud of the level of effort he put into this. As an afterthought, he ambitiously grabs a roll of wrapping paper and some scotch tape, though he doesn't have the first clue what to do with it. He quickly pays for his items and hurries to catch up with Sam and Jess.

They get the tree home and spend the next couple hours decorating it under Jess's careful supervision. When it's done, Dean has to admit it looks pretty awesome.

"I'm a genius," he says, admiring his handiwork with the lights.

"Genius my ass," says Sam. "Jess had to tell you every step of the way."

"Says the freak of nature who almost knocked the whole thing over with his giant body," Dean retorts, but he catches Jess around the waist and plants a kiss on her cheek in thanks.

"Watch it, Dean, that's my future wife you're kissing there," Sam jokes in feigned offense.

"You're both idiots," Jess says. "You'd be lost without me."

"Sure would, babe," Sam agrees, snatching her back from Dean and kissing her deeply.

Dean makes an obligatory gagging sound, but a warmth spreads through him as he looks around the little room bathed in the soft glow of the lights, and he thinks he might actually be okay with it all, but there might also be something missing.

 

"Hey, Bobby?" Dean begins the next day as he's making a list of parts needed for the Barracuda.

"Yeah?" says Bobby from under the hood of a Focus.

"You were talking the other day about Karen, and you had a point you didn't get to finish making," Dean prompts. It's Benny's lunch hour again, which Dean had planned so they could have a little privacy. He hates these sorts of conversations, but he thinks maybe he needs to hear this. He's hovering on the brink of something, he knows, and he keeps coming back to what Bobby had said the week before.

Bobby levels a knowing look at him, and why does everyone in Dean's life have to think they're so damn clever? It's annoying. "Okay," Bobby says. "So I told you how I got cold feet, and Karen had to chase me down and tell me that I didn't get to decide whether or not I was good enough for her, that that was her job."

"Yeah, that's about where you left off," says Dean.

"So my point with all that was that she had to come after me, and don't get me wrong, I was grateful for it. Let me tell you, I thanked God every day for the rest of her life that she hadn't let me go. But I always regretted that she had had to come after me. Wished I'd've had enough sense to go after her myself and apologize."

Dean is silent for a while. He's not stupid. This story applies to him to an almost uncanny degree, likely far more than Bobby guesses it might. Dean's not going to fool himself that his feelings (and wouldn't Sam be smug about Dean admitting to having feelings) for Cas are at this point anything like Bobby's were for Karen. They've only met the once, and really, they hardly know each other. But he certainly feels _something,_ and to say they hardly know each other just doesn't seem right somehow. Dean is convinced, oddly enough, that in those few hours, he had gotten to know Cas better than he's gotten to know some people in a few years—and that had been _before_ the sex. In any case, the parts of Bobby's story about inadequacy and apologies due certainly hit close to home.

Hoping to deflect the conversation from turning to how it might apply to him, Dean says lightly, "Guess it turned out that you were good enough for her after all, huh?"

"Hell, no," Bobby snorts. "She was far too good for me. But she made me better, and that was enough to get by on."

Dean chuckles, more in acknowledgment than humor. The thread of conversation breaks off—for which they're undoubtedly both grateful—and they return their attentions to their respective projects. But Dean can't focus very well anymore. He has a lot to think about, and it's time to actually face it—not just _not run_ but actually plunge headlong into his tangled thoughts and try to unravel them.

Foreigner's "I Want to Know What Love Is" starts playing on the radio, but Dean turns it off with a vengeful twist of the knob. He's working through this in his own time, thank you very much, and he doesn't need the radio gods to be smart-asses along the way.

 

He thinks about it all evening as he eats dinner and later watches a movie with his family. Jess had voted for whatever cheesy holiday movie was playing on one of the local channels, but the brothers had vetoed that and had instead popped in Dean's worn VHS copy of _Braveheart._ A guy has got to draw the line somewhere, after all. Dean's too distracted by his thoughts to pay the movie much attention, even to the point where he fails to quote the speech before the battle along with William Wallace like he always does. Sam and Jess keep shooting him worried glances. He goes to bed after the movie, and when he eventually goes to sleep, yes, damn it, he dreams of Cas, because sometime in the past week he apparently grew tits.

His rumination continues into the next day—Christmas Eve. Dean tries to just enjoy his rare day off with nothing to do—Sam and Jess have spoiled him this week by cleaning and doing the laundry—but he's too tense to relax. After lunch, Jess attempts to bake some cookies for tomorrow, but when Sam and Dean prove to be nuisances, she banishes them from the kitchen with flashing eyes that brook no argument. Sam says he's going to watch some TV, so Dean retreats to his own bedroom.

 _Women are scary,_ he thinks childishly, rubbing his still-bruised shin from where Jo had kicked him the other day. He flops belly-first on his bed and heaves a sigh into the pillow. _Maybe it's a good thing Cas is a man._

There's an ironic thought. Half of what's been plaguing his mind with indecision relates directly to Cas being a man.

The thing most troubling him is the same reason he freaked out and fled that night. He can't know for sure that he'll be able to move past the ingrained shame of his past deeds.

But look how far Dean has come in other things. He's making it at a normal life, and it may have been rocky, but he's going to make it in a normal job too—as the owner, in fact, and that's a step above what most people manage. He never would have thought he'd be able to do it, but here he is.

Why can't this be the same? Why should he let this fear steal his autonomy by filling him with shame? He's not a slave to his past. He has free will, and as long as he's breathing, he can choose his own path. If he wants to screw ten guys at once, he shouldn't let his past scars stop him.

Not that he wants to screw ten guys or anything. Actually, he kind of just wants to screw Cas again.

So okay, supposing Dean is able to move past his history and fully embrace his bisexuality. That brings up another concern, and it may be shallow, but Dean's never claimed to be deep. Put bluntly, Dean _really likes pussy._ Yeah, he likes dick too, but is it an even trade? Undeniably, he's always preferred women, and not just because of his negative experiences with men.

If he pursues anything with Cas—and if, of course, Cas is willing—it won't be something casual and open—Dean feels certain Cas isn't that type, and frankly he isn't either. One night stands are one thing, or even the occasional weekend-long fling, but the moment emotions and planned date nights and talks of the future are involved, Dean feels the necessity for fidelity, no matter how much of a playboy he's always fancied himself. Would he really be okay with swearing off the charms of the female body?

Then again, he hasn't experienced the full spectrum of sex with a man. In his days of hooking, he'd both given and received (as his customer's preference had dictated) plenty of blow jobs and hand jobs, but he'd drawn the line at going any further, and other than Cas, he's never been with a man that wasn't paying.

He has had anal sex with a couple women before, and he liked it just fine. He's also been with a few dominant women, but he never bottomed physically. On a couple of those occasions he was tempted to ask for it, but he never got up the nerve. The idea has always aroused him, but it's also an entirely new level of vulnerability he has never yet been comfortable with showing. With Cas, he might be willing to try.

Dean also reminds himself that when he was with Cas, the last thing on his mind was the fact that Cas doesn't have a vagina or boobs. It hadn't mattered in the slightest to Dean's attraction and arousal, because he had first been attracted by the person Cas is, although yeah, okay, Cas is pretty damn hot too.

Anatomy is not going to make or break them as a couple. If they work, they're going to work because their personalities and interests and lives mesh together in a way that's both comfortable and exciting; if they find fulfillment in each other, it will be because of who they are and what they might come to mean to each other.

Maybe that alone can take the sex from good to great (and if Dean's honest, it was already pretty damn awesome). Maybe it's all Dean will need, and he'll never even miss enjoying the soft curves of a woman.

So really, it's not quite right to say he just wants to screw Cas again. He undeniably wants Cas physically, but even more than that, he'd just like to see the guy again, make sure he's okay.

Dean's not sure what that means exactly. But he remembers his little fantasy the other day of his idealized life where Cas had appeared unbidden beside him, and he thinks maybe that's it.

But how would Cas react to the knowledge that Dean used to whore himself out? Should Dean keep it a secret? That doesn't seem right. But most people would be pretty appalled. Not too many people want to date a prostitute, ex or not.

Then again, Cas had heard the story of Dean's past (well, most of it) but still looked at him with that same wonder-filled gaze, like Dean holds the answers to the questions of the universe or something. If he could overlook the majority of Dean's sketchy history, then maybe he won't write Dean off for the rest, the secret parts that Dean is most ashamed of. Maybe he'll understand _why_ Dean did what he did.

Or maybe Cas won't be able to understand, and he'll tell Dean he thinks he's disgusting—it's nothing Dean hasn't heard or thought before. Or maybe Dean's past won't matter, but Cas won't be able to forgive Dean for walking out on him. Or maybe Dean has it all wrong and Cas was only interested in a one night stand himself and will laugh at Dean for coming after him. Or maybe Cas wants him too, and they'll start dating or whatever, but then it will fall apart. Maybe they'll find out they're entirely incompatible, and it will crash and burn.

But does he really want to not even try? The "what ifs" will drive him crazy for years; he can feel it.

Here was someone with whom he just _fit,_ and Dean had walked away. What if Cas was his chance? What if he lets Cas go now; what if he figures, oh, down the road, or when I'm older, or when I know I'm ready, or whatever the hell, and it turns out he'd missed his one shot?

He wants Cas. Of that he's absolutely sure, now. Maybe he even needs him. What that means, what that might mean for the future, he doesn't know. But he knows he has to try.

But should he really go _now?_ It's Christmas Eve, and Dean has family here and plans for tomorrow, and surely Cas has things going on too.

But no, that's just it—he probably _doesn't._

Dean thinks of himself surrounded by people who love him at Christmastime, how he'd resisted so hard at first but now is glad they've come, because it really does make everything better.

Cas had said that he's essentially estranged from his family, and he hadn't made it sound like he has too many friends either. Dean thinks of him, alone in his homey little house that must seem a little less homey when empty of family, friends, and cheer on Christmas.

And that's it—that's the straw that broke the camel's back; put a fork in him because he's done. He can't stand it any longer.

He grabs his coat, his shoes, and his wallet (and if he checks to make sure there's a condom in his wallet, well, that's just called taking precautions), and he bustles into the living room and toward the door. "Going out," he announces to the flabbergasted faces turned toward him. "If I'm not back in a couple hours, don't wait up."

Sam opens his mouth to protest but only gets as far as "But it's Christm—" when Dean shuts the door.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the talented [purgatoryjar](http://purgatoryjar.tumblr.com/).

There's not a sign of snow as Castiel Novak boards the 14th Street line. The weather has turned off relatively warm the last few days, and considering it's December 24th with zero chance of precipitation, the hopes of children (and adults) for a white Christmas are bound to be dashed.

The activity of last-minute shoppers has thinned; by now, most people are at home with their families, baking, wrapping presents, or preparing to go to Christmas Eve services. It means the bus is not crowded, and Castiel can sit with his shopping bags on the seat to his right and an empty seat to his left.

A very affectionate young couple sits toward the back of the bus. The man has one arm around the woman, and the fingers of his other hand are twined with hers across his lap, and they're conversing in low murmurs. Castiel isn't above admitting he's a little jealous. It must be nice to belong with someone, to know that you can reach out, and your someone will meet you halfway.

Even just having the guarantee of someone to share special days with—someone you _want_ to share them with—would be invaluable. It's been a long time since Castiel has had that, if indeed he ever truly has. Childhood's proximity means less than chosen closeness in adulthood. At least Gabriel has promised a visit soon—on New Year's, in fact. He'd claimed he wasn't able to change his plans for Christmas without significant hassle and expense but that he could do so more easily for New Year's, and truthfully, the day doesn't matter to Castiel. He's just thrilled to have a chance to see Gabriel, thrilled to have the opportunity to rebuild their relationship. They've spoken on the phone twice in the past week, once just to chat and once when Gabriel called to inform Castiel of his plans to visit.

Between that development and the success of Castiel's plan to help Dean, it's been a good week, on the whole.

Dean. Castiel smiles to himself, remembering how the woman at the bank had described Dean's reaction to the news of the loan. From the sound of it, "ecstatic" and "floored" would only barely suffice as descriptors. Castiel wishes he could say that he can picture Dean's expressions, but the truth is that his memory of Dean's face has already begun to lose its clarity in his mind's eye. It's a loss he mourns.

The thought of Dean still stings, but sweetness mingles now with the bitterness. Being able to make something good come out of this love that had so suddenly and unexpectedly welled in Castiel makes the pain of its untimely loss more bearable.

In time, Castiel will heal. It's the way of time, the nature of people. But Castiel doesn't want to heal so completely that he forgets. Dean left an indelible mark on Castiel's soul, and he hopes it scars. After all, scars are but memories tangibly immortalized, and whether they are a source of grief or a source of pride is up to the one scarred. "I loved once," he wants his to proudly declare. "I loved once, and it meant something." He only wishes he'd been able to penetrate far enough through Dean's protective barriers to leave his own mark on Dean's soul, because where two souls meet with a fiery touch, there is forged a bond.

But his efforts fell short, and chances are, that's the end of it.

Nonetheless, Castiel has done a good deed, given something of value to someone who has been given little in his life previously, and he can relish that feeling for a long time. Smiling softly to himself once more, he pulls out his book and settles back to read for the remainder of the ride.

 

Some minutes pass, along with several stops. The driver calls for Second, but Castiel has long since learned to tune out the stops that are not his own, so he pays little heed, keeping his head down and focused on his book. Consequently, he doesn't notice the steady footsteps that halt directly in front of him.

"Hey, Cas."

The voice is soft and almost hesitant, but Castiel jolts with widened eyes at the sound as though the words had been shouted in his ear. He knows that voice. It sends electric tingles up his spine; his heart thunders in his chest, and his breath refuses to be drawn. Suddenly apprehensive and embarrassed, he struggles to find the courage to look—he's never before had the experience of running into a past romantic partner.

But the compulsion to look is stronger than his embarrassment. Dean is the moon, and he, the tide; it's a gravitational pull that he's powerless to fight. He raises his head.

God, Dean's even more beautiful than Castiel had remembered him being.

Castiel has no idea what to make of this, this reappearance of the very man whom Castiel thought he'd never again see, no matter how greatly he longed for it. It must be some cruel coincidence, because surely it cannot be anything else. There's simply no way Dean has sought him out, no way that this encounter is at all intentional.

But the look on Dean's face shatters the notion of this being mere happenstance. It's incredible, his eyes effulgent with some undefinable emotion; his mouth seems desperate to curve into a delighted smile, but something holds him back. Terror too resides in Dean's expression, Castiel discerns; it hides in the corners and just beneath the surface, vying for dominance over the determination to which Dean is clinging.

Castiel has been staring at Dean in blank stupefaction as he processes this, and in that time, the fragile joy in Dean's countenance seems to sputter out and die, like a candle at the end of its wick. The bus pulls away with a lurch, and Dean grabs hold of the bar above Castiel to steady himself.

"You're probably not too happy to see me, huh?" Dean says, his voice purged of emotion.

Immediately, Castiel feels his heart strain toward Dean in an almost physical way, so overcome is he with the desire to soothe Dean's worries. "Please don't think that," he says swiftly. "I'm simply surprised."

Dean nods, and he seems to relax marginally, but as he looms over Castiel, the rigid lines of his body belie his continuing tension. "Okay if I sit?" he asks.

"Of course," Castiel says, indicating the empty seat beside him. He's acutely aware of the nearness of Dean's body to his own as Dean lowers himself into the seat, as though some sort of metaphysical current of energy runs just beneath Dean's skin, and Castiel alone is attuned to it. His eyes follow Dean's motion, hardly daring to blink for fear that Dean will vanish like some desert mirage. Dean catches his gaze and holds it, seemingly just as reluctant to look away.

"I was on my way to your house," Dean says after a moment. "Didn't expect to run into you on the bus. Kinda fitting, though."

"You were on your way to my house?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" Castiel asks. Apprehension that the answer may not be what he wants makes the question almost unbearable to ask, but he needs to know.

"I had to see you," Dean responds without missing a beat, and his eyes are full of such earnest hope that it takes Castiel's breath away. He can only manage a nod in response.

"Listen," Dean says. "You, uh, you wanted to take me out before. I know I've been kind of a douche, but if the offer still stands, we could go somewhere, get some dinner, and talk. I mean," he quickly clarifies, "I'm not suggesting you pay or something—that's not what I meant—that didn't—"

"Dean," Castiel stops him, rescuing him from fumbling further to explain himself. Has Dean always been this adorable? Undoubtedly he wouldn't appreciate the adjective, but Castiel thinks it nonetheless. "The offer still stands. And I know you weren't asking so that I'd pay, although I would be happy to."

"Not necessary," Dean says. "Where do you want to go? Or, I guess the question is, what's open? It's Christmas Eve and all."

"How do you feel about burgers?" There's a burger shop that's about a five minute walk from the station and a ten minute walk from Castiel's house, and he's pretty certain they will still be open.

Dean apparently feels very strongly about burgers, because a grin splits his face. "Oh, now you're speaking my language, buddy."

"Good," Castiel says, giving Dean a tentative little grin in return.

Silence falls between them for the next several minutes; Castiel would like to say that it's companionable, but the truth is there's too much tension between them, too many unanswered questions for comfort. Dean seems to be working himself up to some discussion, and he's apparently deemed that the bus, with the promise of interruption, is not the place to begin it. Castiel longs for the easy company that they had kept before.

In between furtive glances—neither of them seems able or willing to keep their eyes turned away for long—Castiel wonders. He wonders what might have prompted Dean to come looking for him, wonders what Dean might have to say. Castiel certainly never predicted this turn of events; it would have been so much easier for Dean to just move on with his life and forget about Castiel entirely. No one (as far as Castiel knows) is forcing Dean to deal with what was likely a distressing epiphany about his sexuality. No one is forcing him to come apologize. So why would he come now, when ties have already been cleanly severed? Unless….

No one is forcing him…unless he has figured out Castiel's involvement in the loan and feels obligated to smooth things over, perhaps even to reciprocate in some tangible way. Castiel's heart sinks with the realization. Of course. That must be it.

But what about the happiness he had seen in Dean's face? What about that hopeful light that shines from his eyes even now? Could Castiel be mistaken about that?

But that's obvious too, isn't it? With that knowledge, it's only natural that Dean would be happy to see him. The light is gratitude, no more, no less. He views Castiel as some kind of savior now, which, although to some extent accurate, is not what Castiel wants. He has no desire to be deified; he didn't even want to be found out in the first place.

Now, Castiel wonders if he'll have the strength to deny himself, if things go a certain way. What he wants is no good if it comes about for the wrong reasons.

Drawing a shaky breath, he makes great effort to school his face into a neutral mask. He doesn't want to give any indication of his thoughts to Dean; he wants at least to give Dean the opportunity to say his peace. And if he's completely honest, he wants to draw out this time in Dean's presence for as long as possible, whatever the outcome. Despite his distress at what he's certain must be the explanation for this encounter, he finds it challenging not to give in to elation at having this one more chance to see Dean, to speak to him, to bask in the feeling just being near Dean gives him, like the stars have aligned in the heavens and he's right where he belongs.

How could he possibly have come to care so much for someone who is barely more than a stranger?

Finally, Dean breaks the silence. "Cutting it pretty close with the Christmas shopping, huh?" he says, gesturing at Castiel's bags.

"It's not Christmas shopping, actually. I had seen some pillows that I liked in an ad, and they were on sale, so I figured now was as good a time as any. The majority of the rush happened yesterday, so the stores weren't too terribly crowded today."

Dean huffs a laugh. "You and your pillows and things. But I gotta say your house is pretty stylish."

"Thank you," Castiel says. "But to be perfectly honest, my house is only stylish because I watch HGTV. The first few things I picked out were awful, or so I'm told. My sister gave me an ultimatum—either I start schooling myself in the subject, or she was going to hire an interior decorator and take away my decision-making power."

Castiel had forgotten how glorious a sound Dean's merriment is, but he's reminded now, because Dean laughs, free and deep and hearty. A wild thought strikes Castiel that he wishes he could bottle the sound, because it would surely keep him warm on cold and lonely nights. "Don't ever change," Dean says, laying his hand on Castiel's shoulder, and his hand must be radioactive, because Castiel's entire body experiences the fallout.

It's going to utterly break Castiel if he has to lose this man twice.

The bus pulls into their stop, and Castiel stands, gesturing for Dean to follow. He reaches for his bags, but Dean is quicker and snatches them up first. It's the sort of old-fashioned chivalry he must be in the habit of exhibiting when he's trying to woo a woman, and maybe Castiel should protest, but he finds it rather charming, so he lets it happen.

They exit the bus, and Castiel leads the way toward the restaurant. The sun is just setting, painting the deserted sidewalk in orange hues, and the air is crisp—chilly enough to warrant their respective coats but not unpleasantly cold. In an alley halfway to their destination, Dean's stride falters, and he stops. With a questioning look, Castiel turns back toward him. Dean's eyes are trained on the ground, and the handles of the bags are twisted in his clenched fists.

"I'm sorry," he finally blurts, his voice rife with emotion. "I was a dick and an idiot. I'm really sorry." He lifts his eyes now, meeting Castiel's gaze and holding it doggedly as he steps closer. Carefully, he sets the bags on the ground, and he reaches out to grip Castiel's arms with unmistakable meaning. "You, uh, you think maybe we can give this another shot?"

Dismay runs through Castiel's veins like a winter frost. This is what he had feared, that Dean would make amends and then offer himself as some sort of remuneration. As much as Castiel desperately longs to accept, to fall into Dean's arms and pretend he's wanted as much as he wants, he can't take advantage of Dean like this. Dean's biting his lower lip in nervous anticipation, and Castiel thinks he must be dreading the answer he feels is inevitable.

The dying rays of the sun ignite the lighter strands of Dean's hair, and Castiel allows himself this one thing—to trace his shaking fingers through it—just once, and then his hand falls listlessly to his side. Dean closes his eyes as a shudder wracks his body.

God help him. "No," Castiel breathes, and it's the most painful syllable he's ever uttered.

Dean's eyes fly open again, and there's a sort of raw panic in them that soon fades to dull resignation. It puzzles Castiel, but he's too emotionally wrung out to make any sort of accurate deduction. He can't bear to look any more, so he gently pushes Dean aside and turns away.

"I know you know, Dean," he offers, ready to end the charade and find out if there's any way they can at least be friends. "I need you to understand that this wasn't why I did it. I don't want you to think—"

"Wait," Dean says, hurrying around to face Castiel once again. Castiel turns his head away, but Dean follows, attempting to reinstate eye contact, and eventually Castiel gives in. "Did what, Cas? What are you talking about?"

He sounds genuinely perplexed, and maybe he's just a good actor, but then again…maybe Castiel was wrong. Maybe he's misjudged this whole situation, in which case, he's just given himself away, like the unmitigated fool he is. All he can do is gape at Dean as he feels color slowly creep into his cheeks.

It must start to dawn on Dean by degrees then, because Castiel can see each level of realization flicker across Dean's increasingly nonplussed face. A stream of half-finished sentences flow from Dean's lips, a soundtrack to his budding understanding. "Cas, no, you didn't—I mean, there's no way—that wasn't—the loan—that was, that was _you?"_

Cursing himself for jumping to conclusions, Castiel ducks his head and angles sheepish eyes up at Dean, feeling irrationally as though he's been caught in some wrongdoing. "I didn't mean for you to know," he says. "But I was so sure you had figured it out, that that's why you're here…" he trails off, because why indeed is Dean here? If he hadn't connected Castiel to the loan, then what else can this mean?

"No," Dean says, still looking completely baffled.

"Then why did you come?"

"Because I want you," Dean blurts, and like a blow to the chest, it knocks the breath right out of Castiel. He doesn't have time to recover before Dean continues. "I haven't been able to get you out of my head. But let's go back to the other thing. Why would you do something like that for me? I didn't even know you had that kind of money."

"I don't," Castiel admits.

"Then _how?"_

"My house," Castiel says. "It gave me the edge I needed to secure the loan."

Dean blinks rapidly, processing this new information, then suddenly he curses loudly. "Damn it, Cas! Why the hell would you do something like that for me? I walked out on you, man. Left you sleeping on your couch without even saying 'bye' or 'thanks,' like the world's number one douchebag. You should hate me, not be throwing away your house for me. I'm not worth that."

"I'm not throwing it away," Castiel snaps, getting caught up in the elevated tone of the discussion that's hovering on the edge of being an argument. "Don't be so dismissive of your own abilities and self-worth. I find it offensive."

"You can't do this, Cas," Dean says with an adamant shake of his head. "I won't let you."

"I don't need your permission," Castiel says peevishly. "And it's already done. You didn't have any issue with accepting the loan before you knew I was behind it, did you?"

"What if I let you down?" Dean shouts, and Castiel suddenly understands the reason for Dean's contentious attitude—it's not anger, it's fear, and it breaks his heart. "What if I fail?" Dean continues. "What then, huh? You'll lose your house."

"You won't fail," Castiel says, calm and steady once more.

"You can't be sure of that," Dean says, the fight dissolving from his own voice, and he scrubs an unsteady hand across his face.

"I am. This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith."

Dean snorts and turns away; he walks over to the curb and seats himself on it, dropping his head into his palms. Castiel leaves him be for several minutes before eventually joining him in silence. Dean glances over in acknowledgement of his presence but says nothing.

Another few minutes pass. A nearby streetlight flickers on, chasing away the deep shade that had fallen on them with the sun's disappearance. "Can we just forget I spoke?" Castiel ventures at length, dearly hoping his mistake hasn't wrecked any possibility of anything between them.

Dean hums a wry, throaty laugh. "Kinda hard. I don't like feeling like I owe you. That's not a good way to start something."

"You don't owe me anything," Castiel insists. "Please don't look at it like that. You owe the bank; I'm only facilitating the arrangement."

Dean doesn't respond for several more minutes. This waiting, this _uncertainty_ is torture to Castiel, but he'll wait as long as it takes. There's simply no way he's going to put any kind of pressure on Dean. "You know you're saving me, right?" Dean says at last, and there's a tremor in his voice but also a timbre of acceptance that gives Castiel hope. "It's like you're my own personal angel or something."

Castiel smiles at that, feeling certain that Dean means the statement seriously but is also making a slight joke about his name. "I'd rather just be your friend," he says honestly.

"Just my friend?" Dean asks, cutting his eyes toward Castiel. His mouth twitches up at the corner.

Unparalleled relief rushes through Castiel, and an inexplicably shy grin tugs at his own mouth. "Well…."

And then Dean is kissing him, enveloping him firmly in his arms, and the shift in the mood happened so fast that Castiel almost forgets to kiss back. But he remembers himself soon enough, and there's both desperation and solace in the way they press their mouths together, hungrily opening to each other as they cling tightly. It's elemental: the crash of the waves, the wind in his hair, burning logs on the hearth, the solid ground beneath his feet, and Castiel wonders how he ever lived without it.

But they're getting ahead of themselves. Castiel needs to be sure of a couple things before they just plunge into this headlong again. He can't handle another heartbreak so soon. Gently he pulls away, and placing his hands on Dean's shoulders, he looks him in the eye. "You're certain you're not doing this because you feel obligated?"

"One hundred percent," Dean says. "You've been driving me crazy, Cas. I've missed you."

"I've missed you too. And that's my other concern. You left, and, well, to be quite frank, I was a wreck. I can't—"

"Wait, what do you mean by 'a wreck?'" Dean interrupts with a frown.

"It's embarrassing," Castiel says, and he turns away, feeling ashamed once more of his behavior after discovering Dean's absence.

But Dean cups a hand around Castiel's face and turns it back toward him. "Hey, hey, no, you don't have to be embarrassed," he says. "It's my fault. I was a dick."

Castiel wonders how many other people get to see this tender side of Dean; he thinks not many, and he feels privileged that he gets to be one of them. He rewards the gesture with a blunt answer. "I cried like a lovesick teenager, and then the next day I stayed home from work and got drunk."

Dean gawks at him. "I don't know whether to laugh or punch myself in the nose."

The words are perhaps a little insensitive, but it's a genuine, unaffected response, and Castiel isn't offended in the slightest. "You can laugh," he says. "It was pretty pathetic."

Dean doesn't laugh. "How do you not hate me?" he asks instead, wonderment and unworthiness mingling in his expression. "How do you go from that to risking your home to get my business a loan?"

"Ultimately, you are not responsible for my lack of self-control," Castiel says. "Had I not given in to my desires, things might have turned out differently. And regardless of what had happened between us, I thought you deserved a better lot than circumstances had given you. But let me finish. You left, and obviously you were uncomfortable with the way things had ended up between us. I don't want to be your experiment, Dean. I need to know what this means to you."

The poor lighting makes it hard to say for sure, but Castiel thinks he sees a blush creep into Dean's cheeks. "I…damn it, I like you, okay? I don't know what the hell that means, but how is it different from starting something with anyone? I mean, hell, I can't guarantee we're gonna work—you'll probably be sick of me in a week—but I'm not gonna run again, Cas. I wanna give this a try."

That's a good enough answer for Castiel. "As do I," he says, and he pulls Dean into another kiss.

This time, Dean interrupts them. "Wait," he says, and he runs a suddenly shaking hand through his hair, then takes a deep, steadying breath. "There's something you need to know about me. You remember how I told you I grew up? The road, the sleazy motels, Dad being gone all the time and everything?" Castiel nods. "It was tough sometimes, especially when Dad would be gone longer than expected. It happened more and more as Sam and I got older. Sometimes he'd be gone so long the money would run out, and our supplies would run out too. We'd just gone hungry a few times when we were younger, but I couldn't stand to see Sammy like that. So when I got a little older, I started turning tricks."

"Tricks?" Castiel asks, not understanding.

"Prostitution, Cas. I sold myself."

What does one even say to something like that? Horror sweeps over Castiel—horror and great sadness, and all he knows is that he wishes he could erase the pain this confession is obviously bringing Dean. But before a response is required of him, Dean hurries on with his speech.

"That's part of why I ran. I've been with guys before, but never under good circumstances. I guess I just freaked. I haven't done anything like that in years, but, uh, listen, I get it if it's a deal-breaker. You don't gotta feel like—"

Oh, no, Castiel is not having any of that nonsense. He interrupts by throwing his arms around Dean in an embrace that he hopes makes his intentions quite clear. Dean's trembling in his arms, and Castiel knows by that alone just how much courage it took Dean to disclose this information. "Dean, do you really think I wouldn't want you because of that?" he asks as he pulls away and meets Dean's eyes once more. "I've wanted you from the moment I saw you, and that hasn't changed. In fact, I only want you more. All you've done is confirm my conviction of the selfless person you are."

"It really doesn't make a difference to you?" Dean asks, sounding small and timid, and Castiel hates that anything could make Dean sound that way.

"No."

"I've never told anyone before," Dean admits, his relief at Castiel's response obvious as his entire frame seems to slump with the release of tension.

"I'm proud of you, Dean. It can't have been easy to tell me, but I'm pleased that you trust me enough to do so." Another thought occurs to him then, and his stomach drops at the prospect. "You didn't catch something, did you? I mean, we can deal with that, but—"

"No!" Dean says hurriedly. "No, nothing like that. I was lucky—very lucky, actually, because I probably wasn't as careful as I should have been. I was just a kid. But no, I'm totally clean. Got tested just last month, and you're the only person I've been with since. And we really should have had this discussion before the last time," he points out with a chuckle.

Distracted by the implication that there might be a "this time," Castiel nearly misses the meaning of Dean's raised eyebrows. "I'm clean too," Castiel assures him, and now hardly seems like the time to explain just _how_ clean.

Castiel's stomach chooses this moment to growl, and it bursts the private bubble in which they've sequestered themselves. It's fully dark now, Castiel notes with surprise, and in the clear sky, the slender wedge of the waxing moon shines amid twinkling stars. He has no idea how long they've been talking, but the temperature has dropped, and a chill is beginning to seep into his bones despite his coat. He shivers.

"How about that burger, Cas?" Dean says. He rises and offers a hand to Castiel, who accepts it gratefully. They're the wrong hands to keep holding, so Castiel drops his grip with reluctance, but Dean must have read his mind, because after only a moment's hesitation, he catches the fingers of Castiel's other hand in his own and threads them together. Neither lets go as they resume their journey.

They're standing in front of the restaurant when Castiel remembers his pillows, and they have to walk back and find where they had left the bags sitting on the sidewalk.

 

By the time they actually enter the restaurant, it's getting crowded, and they have to wait to be seated. It being Christmas Eve, many restaurants closed early, and consequently, people are flocking to the few still open. Dean dropped their held hands as soon as they entered public view, and Castiel doesn't begrudge him the discretion, but he's privately grateful for the crowd that requires them to stand close with shoulders brushing. After about fifteen minutes, the hostess leads them to a two-person booth along the front wall, and they place their orders as soon as the frazzled waitress arrives.

It requires little effort on Castiel's part to get Dean talking about his work over dinner. While Dean eats his burger with a relish that's almost embarrassingly vocal, he rambles on about his vision for his business and everything he's managed to accomplish since the loan was finalized. Castiel has, of course, read over Dean's business plan, but he far prefers hearing everything straight from Dean in less clinical terms, and the progress of the past week is entirely new to him. It's significant progress for the short length of time, really—Castiel is duly impressed and more convinced than ever that his judgment had not been mistaken.

Dean's enthusiasm is infectious, and even though Castiel knows little about the subject, he finds himself getting excited too. There's a particular kind of joy in watching Dean's face light up as he enthuses about the car he's getting to restore, and Castiel is content to listen for a long while, enraptured.

"You're fortunate to have such good people in your life," Castiel says. "They obviously care about you very much."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "They're pretty awesome. I think you'll like them."

"I'd like to meet them someday."

Looking down, Dean plays with his napkin, tearing the edges into a jagged fringe, and Castiel waits patiently for him to work through whatever he's contemplating. "How 'bout tomorrow?" Dean suggests at last, wadding the mangled napkin into his fist as he cuts his eyes back up to meet Castiel's. "I wasn't gonna do the whole Christmas thing, but Jess made us get a tree and stuff, and we're doing dinner. I mean, unless you have plans…."

"I have no plans," Castiel says, eager to accept, but a moment's thought spurs him to gently add, "but are you certain you're ready for that? And I don't wish to intrude on the Winchester family festivities."

"Only half of us are actual Winchesters, dude. Jess isn't official yet, and Bobby's just honorary. And no, I'm not ready. But I might never be, and my family won't be here forever, so we might as well do this."

"We don't have to tell them," Castiel offers. He'd rather not have to hide his feelings for Dean, but he can deal with secrecy for now if Dean would be more comfortable with that arrangement.

But Dean just chuckles at this. "They're all too damn smart. They'll figure it out." He pauses then, biting his lower lip as his eyes dart around the room. His perusal must assure him that no one has eyes trained on them, because he takes the plunge and reaches across the table to cover one of Castiel's hands with his own. "Whaddaya say, Cas? Come meet my family?"

"I'd like that very much, Dean," Castiel says. "But promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"Don't tell them about my involvement in the loan. Not yet, anyway." He doesn't want Dean's family to think the loan was an attempt on his part to buy Dean's love, and he also doesn't want them to wrongfully assume, as he did, that Dean only reciprocated his feelings as a form of repayment. There's also a part of him that hopes they might come to like him on the merit of his own personality.

"If that's what you want," Dean says, squinting at him, Castiel's concerns evidently not occurring to him.

"It is."

Self-consciousness must return to Dean then, because he withdraws his hand, but the smile he offers Castiel in recompense is warm. "Cas, what's your last name?" he asks suddenly. "You've obviously figured out mine somehow, but I never got yours."

"Novak," Castiel says.

"Novak," Dean repeats, committing it to memory. "Cas Novak."

Castiel is reminded just how much he likes that nickname that Dean has bestowed upon him, how when he first heard it, he had longed to be someone who could rightfully lay claim to it. After this evening, he's pretty certain anything is possible, and surely he can become someone whom the name "Cas" suits. Gabriel had, in fact, said something on the phone the other day, something about him seeming more—how did he put it?— _human._ Maybe Castiel has already changed, maybe he's already well into his evolution into someone deserving of such a warm and familiar moniker.

What can it hurt if he claims it? It's his name, his prerogative. _Yes,_ he thinks with satisfaction, _I'm Cas._

"What about you?" Dean asks, oblivious to the redefinition of identity that has just taken place in his companion. The question jolts Cas—for Cas he's determined to be—out of his contemplation. "We've just been talking about me," Dean points out. "How have you been? I mean, _since_ the crying and the drinking." His green eyes sparkle with humor in the light of the low-hanging lamp.

Cas kicks him lightly under the table in retaliation for the teasing, but they grin at each other. "Actually, things have been going surprisingly well," he says, and then he launches into the story about Michael, Gabriel's call, and his reconnection with Gabriel.

"That's awesome," Dean says sincerely when Cas is finished.

"It's thanks to you, you know."

"Bullcrap," Dean declares. "You've sure got a twisted way of looking at things, buddy. It's thanks to _you._ I had nothing to do with it."

Cas is about to counter that it would never have happened if it hadn't been for him meeting Dean, but the waitress comes at that moment, so he lets it drop.

"Together or separate?" she asks.

"Together," Dean says quickly, and he holds out his open hand.  "Give it here." Cas opens his mouth to protest, but Dean points a finger at him. "And you don't get to argue, so shut up."

Dean pays, and when the waitress leaves, Cas levels him with a glare. "You didn't have to do that. I know money is tight for you right now. I could have paid for my own."

"I can manage paying for one burger, man." Cas purses his lips and narrows his eyes at this, but Dean just laughs at him. "We should go," Dean says. "There's still people waiting, and they're all giving us the evil eye. So's the waitress."

Cas nods in agreement, so they both shrug into their coats again. Grabbing one of Cas's shopping bags apiece, they head toward the exit.

"Come home with me, Dean," Cas blurts as soon as they step foot on the sidewalk in the chilly night air. "I know it's selfish of me to ask, since you have family visiting, and it's all right if—"

"I was hoping you'd ask," Dean interrupts, and he runs a sheepish hand through his hair. "Actually, I, uh, told them not to wait up."

It's been slowly sinking in all evening, but that's the moment when Cas realizes fully that Dean truly wants him too, in the same ways that Cas wants Dean. The idea that Dean is here of his own volition, that he hoped, even planned, for the possibility of going home with Cas, fills Cas with awe. Dean is here tonight, and he's promised Cas a tomorrow. Could it be that Cas will really get to keep Dean? He would like nothing better than to have many tomorrows with this man.

Desire crashes over him like a tidal wave then, and he instigates the contact this time, seizing Dean's hand and tugging him forcefully around to the side of the building, where they're swathed in shadow and sheltered from prying eyes. With an aggressiveness that surprises even himself, he shoves Dean against the bricks and attacks his mouth. The bags with the pillows inside fall unheeded to the ground as both men put their hands to much better uses.

When they pull apart with a wet smack a few minutes later, they're both heaving great breaths. "Damn," Dean pants, looking dazed. "What got into you?"

"You," Cas says, and he leans back in to mouth at Dean's stubbled jawline with already tingling lips. He drinks in the music of Dean's ragged gasps, and the sounds only serve to heighten his arousal. Eventually working his way over to Dean's ear, he murmurs in it, "Let me make love to you, Dean. Properly this time."

A shudder runs the length of Dean's body, and they're pressed so closely that Cas can feel it from start to finish. "Yeah," breathes Dean after a moment, shaky. More firmly, he repeats, "Yeah, okay."

Cas needs no further encouragement; he captures Dean's hand in his once more and pulls him along in the direction of his house. If it wasn't for Dean's long legs, he'd be hard-pressed to keep up, because never in Cas's life has he been in more of a hurry to get somewhere.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a friendly PSA reminding you that that "explicit" rating isn't there just because it looks pretty.
> 
> Art by the talented [purgatoryjar](http://purgatoryjar.tumblr.com/).

_Is this really happening?_ Dean thinks hazily as he trots to keep up with his companion's rapid pace. His heart must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, because it's pounding out a steady thrumming somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, and he wants to tell it to go back to his chest where it belongs and stop making such a fuss.

He's not exactly a blushing virgin over here; he's had sex more times than he can count—with more people than he can count, so why the hell is he so nervous all of a sudden? It might be because his partner is a man, but Dean has a sneaking suspicion that it has more to do with the fact that for once in his life, he cares about his partner as more than just a warm, willing body. He cares about Cas. He wants this to be good for them both, because sex may not be everything—or even the most important thing—in a relationship, but it's still important.

Then again, he's pretty sure he just agreed to take it up the ass, so the fact that he's only nervous and not actively freaking out is actually kind of a big deal.

Cas whips them around a corner, nearly jerking Dean's arm out of its socket, and for a moment, Dean forgets all about his nervousness.  It's really damn cute, the single-mindedness with which Cas is endeavoring to get them to his house as quickly as possible. Yes, Dean thinks Cas is really freaking cute right now, and he's riding too much of a high to worry about it.

For someone whose appearance is so conservative (if a mite eclectic), Cas shows surprisingly little inhibition in his sexuality. Inexperience, sure, but that only seems to increase the effect. It's as though Cas never learned to feel shame. For all that they had only exchanged blow jobs the last time, it was still some of the filthiest sex Dean's had in a while, but Cas had seemed innocently oblivious to that fact. Considering that most of Dean's past partners have either been blatantly promiscuous with a side of jaded or, in the case of his customers, perverted, Cas is both refreshing and appealing in how different he is.

Plus, Cas is hot. He's got those damn blue eyes and that dark, messy hair and just the right amount of stubble, and he's got a fantastic body. The man obviously does something to stay fit, because he's toned—just enough, too, not overdone. Yes, Dean would like to spend some quality hours exploring that body. He can still clearly picture just how Cas had looked standing naked above him.

But it's the eye contact that had been the most incredible part. Cas had looked at him with such unbridled, unaffected bliss and unabashed awe, as though he'd just received revelation proclaiming Dean to be his new god. Dean's had plenty of grateful partners, even rendered a few speechless (hey, his skills are freakin' awesome, thank you very much), but none of them ever looked at him the way Cas had. None of them seemed to really see him the way he feels Cas does.

So yeah, okay, Dean may actually be just as eager to reach their destination as Cas.

Last time had felt like a beginning, and this time may actually be the start of something—in fact, Dean hopes it will be, so he wants this night to be a memorable one for them both. He might as well go the whole hog, and to hell with his "no chick flick moments" rule for tonight—special occasions are acceptable exceptions, right? Because this is definitely a special occasion, and he has a perfect idea.

"Hey, Cas?" he ventures as they reach Cas's sidewalk. The stupid grin that twitches his mouth at the corners refuses to be denied.

"Yes?" Cas responds as he fumbles for his keys in the depths of that ratty old (and okay, oddly sexy) trench coat he seems pretty attached to.

"Let's do it in front of the fire."

"We had a fire before, " Cas points out, characteristically missing the point. He finally wrangles the door open and steps inside, pulling Dean behind him.

"No," Dean says, and son of a bitch, if that's a blush he feels warming his cheeks, he'll never forgive his stupid face. "I mean, like, on the floor actually in front of the fire."

"Won't you be more comfortable in bed?" Cas squints at him as he shrugs out of his coat, revealing the jeans and long-sleeved polo underneath. Dean's always hated polos, but Cas somehow manages to not look douchey in this one, so Dean gives it a pass. He enjoys the sight of Cas in casual attire; his only (clothed) image of Cas from before had been in a business suit, and he decides he likes this more relaxed look on him. Cas tosses the coat over the knee wall as he adds, "The floor is rather hard."

"No, I mean, listen," Dean says, feeling foolish. Why can't Cas just get the picture here without Dean having to paint it? But he's committed now, so he plunges forward. "I've been thinking about this. You've got all those pillows, and you've probably got some blankets somewhere, and we can make a pallet. You can lay me out on it and have your wicked way with me." He meant the last sentence to sound facetious, but he thinks it came out somewhere between shy and sultry instead, which is just weird. And embarrassing. Son of a bitch.

But Cas is grinning at him—full-on _beaming,_ teeth and gums and crinkly eyes and everything. "Dean, you're actually a romantic, aren't you?" He looks and sounds so smug that if he were anyone else, Dean would want to wipe that grin off his face. But Dean's pretty sure it's the first time he's seen him smile like that—it's obviously an infrequent occurrence, and it's a good look. Dean decides that he wants to make Cas smile like that more often, even if it comes at the expense of his own dignity.

But that doesn't mean he has to admit to anything, and he's _totally_ not a romantic, anyway. Sam's the romantic of the family. This is just a special occasion. "What? No, no way, man," he huffs in denial. "It's just that it's, uh, it's Christmas, and, uh, stuff."

Cas doesn't let him fumble for excuses for long, because he's suddenly all up in Dean's space and kissing him soundly, which Dean is so okay with. Tangling tongues beats talking any day. Cas kisses like it's a challenge he's determined to win through sheer willpower; he may not have the most refined technique, but his enthusiasm is unrivaled. It's wet and messy and thorough and wonderful, and Dean loves it.

Far too soon, Cas pulls back abruptly, his eyes wide. "Pillows!" he exclaims.

"Huh?" Dean says, dazed and a little irritated, seeing no good reason for them not to be fused at the lips right now.

"We left my pillows outside of the restaurant."

"Crap, you're right," Dean says. "Should we go back?" Maybe it's selfish of him, but he hates to even pose the question for fear that Cas might actually want to go retrieve them now. He doesn't want to put this on hold.

"No," Cas sighs. "We can go by in the morning. If they're not still there, I'll call on Tuesday. Someone might have taken them inside."

Damn it, Cas just looks so sad about his damn pillows that Dean can't help it. "You sure, babe? I can run over there and get them while you get things ready here." _Babe?_ He's never called anyone that outside of a sexual context, and it came so easily just now, and it certainly wasn't premeditated. Huh.

Apparently endearments work for Cas, because his pupils dilate. "Screw the pillows," he growls, and Dean wants to laugh because the words seem so incongruous coming from him, but he doesn't because Cas has this intense expression as he grabs him by the arms and pulls him in so they're nose to nose and…holy crap. Assertive Cas is _hot._ "If you so much as step foot outside of this house right now, I'll never forgive you."

Cas doesn't allow him even a breath in which to protest the bossiness (and any protests would be on principle only and not in true sentiment anyway). In a heartbeat, he's on him again, devouring his mouth while simultaneously shoving at his jacket. Dean wriggles out of it, and it gets thrown haphazardly over the knee wall, but it falls off the other side, dragging Cas's coat with it. Neither cares, if indeed they notice.

"Come on," Cas breathes against his lips at length. "Start the fire. I'll get the blankets and things."

Dean nods in compliance but drags Cas back in for one more kiss.

"I want you so much," Cas says in that rough, sensual voice that makes Dean's insides squirm. He looks positively wrecked, face flushed and eyes dark, lips already kiss-swollen and ruddy, hair unkempt.

 _I did that,_ Dean thinks. _I made him look like that, and we haven't even done anything yet._ It's a heady sort of knowledge, that he has so much power over Cas, that he can make him fall apart with hardly any effort. Genuinely—and incredibly—Cas wants him _so much,_ and as hard a concept as it is to wrap his head around, Dean knows instinctively it's not just his body Cas wants, it's the person he is, including every broken, flawed, inadequate part of him—the bad right along with the good. No one has ever wanted him like that before, and although it makes little sense to him, he's in great danger of becoming addicted to it.

They pull apart, and Cas promptly disappears down the hall, so Dean steps out to the woodpile and grabs an armful. He's watching the flames take hold of the starter log when Cas reappears.

"Dean, do you have a condom?" Cas asks as he dumps a mountain of blankets on the couch.

"Yeah," Dean says, thinking it's a little odd that Cas doesn't, but maybe he's just out. "Do you have lube?"

Cas fishes a bottle out of his jeans pocket and holds it up triumphantly. That's when it hits Dean fully. This is really happening, and Dean's struck with a sudden, uncomfortable thought that he should probably tend to some…personal hygiene matters. What do people usually do in this kind of situation? Do they do the whole enema thing, or is that overkill? It's not like he's exactly prepared for that anyway; he's equipped with a condom and a single-use packet of lube (thank goodness Cas has more), and that's it. The girls he did this with had just sort of disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes beforehand, but girls do that a lot. He has no idea what they'd been doing in there, and he honestly hadn't given it much thought at the time. He almost wishes he had asked or something, because he really doesn't want…well, that would just be awkward and embarrassing. And gross. Yeah.

Well, at least he can go…clean up some first.

"Bathroom," he mumbles, and he beelines to the back.

When he returns several minutes later, Cas is sitting very straight and still on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, staring at his hands folded in his lap. His head snaps up when he hears Dean's reentry, and he visibly relaxes.

"I thought for a minute that you might have changed your mind," he says, the worry, not fully assuaged, apparent in his voice.

"No," Dean says, reluctant to explain his absence. "I was just…. Don't make me say it, Cas."

"Oh."

After an awkward pause in which they just stare at each other, Dean finally says with a little laugh, "What are we doing, Cas? We were so anxious before. We didn't hesitate like this last time."

"This means more," Cas says. "Plus, unlike last time, it's premeditated."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

Cas crosses the distance between them then, and, taking hold of Dean's hand once more, leads him over to the fire, where he has formed what looks to be a very comfortable, cushiony pallet on the floor. Dean starts to shimmy out of his open flannel, but Cas stills his movement. "Let me," he says.

That's all it takes, and the mood is back. Dean's still nervous, but as Cas slips the sleeves down his arms and tosses the shirt aside, it's as though Dean's skin ignites in the wake of Cas's hands. Cas is taking his time, and it's driving Dean crazy by degrees. Cas leans in for a soft, chaste kiss that's barely short of torture, and next Dean's t-shirt comes off. It takes a mere moment for Cas to rid himself of his own polo, and then he apparently succumbs to temptation as he wraps his arms around Dean and presses them close, kissing all along Dean's neck and shoulder. The skin-on-skin contact is glorious but not enough, and Dean makes his opinion known by grinding his still-clothed groin against Cas, alerting him to the increasingly uncomfortable tightness. Getting the memo, Cas promptly unbuttons and unzips him with hands that are perhaps a bit clumsy. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband and tugs both jeans and boxers down as one, trailing his open, wet mouth down Dean's torso as he lowers himself to his knees. Dean is still wearing his shoes, so Cas unties the laces and helps Dean out of them, allowing Dean to then step out of his pants. While Cas stands to remove his own pants, Dean takes off his watch and bracelet and sets them aside.

To hell with his nervousness—Dean _wants_ this, wants _Cas,_ and he wants it now. In contrast to their urgency at the outset, they've taken far too long to get here, with them both naked and aroused and ready to take whatever the other has to give, and Dean thinks it's really dumb. Lying down, he spreads his legs in wanton invitation as he watches Cas's muscles flex in the flickering firelight, enticing. "Cas, get down here," he demands with a jaunty grin.

Cas looks down at him, and even from that distance, Dean can see his breath hitch. In a fraction of a second, he's down there, draped over Dean and plunging an insistent tongue in Dean's welcoming mouth, running exploring hands over every inch of Dean he can reach. They exchange hot breaths as their tongues engage in a vigorous fencing match between their mouths, and Dean shifts to better align their dicks in an effort to achieve the beautiful relief of friction.

After several minutes of this, Cas breaks away. "Let me take care of you," he whispers, echoing his words from the time before that had made Dean's insides all turn somersaults. The phrase rattles Dean no less this time, but he is perhaps a little more receptive to the sentiment, more resigned to the idea that this man may actually see him as he is and still think he's worthy of his tender attentions. He nods.

Cas smiles at him then, and he leans back down for one more kiss before he starts working his way lower on Dean's body. He pauses for a while to suck one of Dean's nipples into his mouth, and Dean bucks beneath him. "Fuck, Cas, just like that," he gasps, and he scrabbles his fingers along Cas's shoulder blades. He can't help it—his nipples are very sensitive. And perky.

Humming his approval at this response, Cas sucks harder, flicking his tongue across the hardened bud and eventually adding a gentle nip of teeth until Dean is writhing and letting loose a stream of profanities. After several minutes of this, he backs off, and Dean observes through already bleary eyes how entirely too pleased with himself Cas looks. A thought half-forms in Dean's head about how endearing that is, but then Cas starts in on Dean's other nipple, and coherency escapes Dean again.

He does finally move on, once Dean has already melted into a quivering puddle. It's entirely unfair that Cas has figured out one of his weaknesses so soon, damn him. After a brief interlude of dipping his tongue into Dean's navel and nipping at the soft surrounding flesh, he turns his focus on Dean's dick, which stands proudly, straining for attention. Cas glances up with hooded eyes full of heat, and Dean shivers at the excess of meaning in the look. Holding the visual contact, Cas wraps his lips around Dean and sinks down.

Maybe it's payback for how Dean had teased him the last time, but Dean doesn't think Cas could go any slower. He's not sure where Cas's control is coming from now, considering how he'd been chomping at the bit before, and Dean's vacillating between thinking it a blessing or a curse. On the one hand, he wants this to last, and on the other, he doesn't want to die from anticipation. That would be some epitaph: "Here lies Dean Winchester. His brain exploded during sex."

"C'mon, damn it, hurry up!" Dean finally urges, burying his fingers in that messy, dark head of hair, and he thrusts just enough to emphasize his point but not cause Cas discomfort. With a muffled, throaty laugh (the little bitch), Cas grips his hips to still him, but he does start bobbing his head. His efforts are unpolished like the last time, but he seems to remember all that he had picked up from then about Dean's preferences. He twists and swirls his tongue around the head while he works Dean's balls in one hand. This time, however, he ventures his other hand underneath Dean to squeeze his ass and prod at his crack with one finger.

It's a promise of things to come that makes Dean's heart apprehensively skip a beat, but he's distracted almost instantly by Cas pulling off his dick and sucking his balls into his mouth. "Fuck!" Dean says. "Fuck, yes, baby. Oh yeah, so—so good."

After several more minutes of this that has Dean nearly on the edge already, Cas pulls away entirely, and he sits back on his haunches to take in the sight of Dean, sweeping his lust-filled eyes over Dean's surely debauched form, still undulating with the tremors of early pleasure and heaved breaths. "You're so lovely," he murmurs, his voice reverential, and there's an adjective Dean's never heard applied to himself. He's been mocked with "pretty" and flattered with "handsome" or "hot," but "lovely" is a whole new category, neither derisive nor fawning—just sincere, and he's not sure how to respond. But he doesn't need to, because then Cas climbs back up him to capture his lips in a languorous kiss.

"Hands and knees for a minute, please," Cas commands at length, and the polite but firm tone _does things_ to Dean. He thinks he could get used to taking orders from Cas during sex, because the words cause a burst of renewed, more intense desire to ignite low in his belly, and he scrambles to comply. He forces himself not to think about the potentially humiliating position as he settles himself as comfortably as possible on his elbows and stations his knees apart, his neglected cock hanging heavy and dripping beneath him.

Cas leans over him, trailing kisses along his spine and stroking his sides, and, as though Cas can read him like words on a page, it does wonders to calm whatever anxiety Dean is feeling over the change in position. After a couple minutes of this, Dean is more than ready for more, and he wiggles his ass in appeal. "C'mon, Cas, go for it already."

Taking the hint, Cas spreads Dean's ass with his hands and leans in, but he pauses. "You smell like my hand-soap," he says.

Dean snorts, but he's privately glad his face is hidden. "Seriously? You suck at dirty talk, buddy."

"My apologies," Cas says, and without further ado he snakes his tongue out and laves at Dean. Dean flinches at the foreign sensation, but Cas holds him steady as he licks slow circles around Dean's rim. Dean barely has time to acquaint himself with that feeling before Cas plunges his tongue inside the tight ring of muscle, startling Dean. "Fuck!" he hollers, pressing his forehead into the blankets and digging his nails into them with a white-knuckled grip.

Promptly pausing, Cas asks, "Dean? Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah, I'm good. It's just kind of weird; that's all."

"Tell me if that changes," Cas instructs him, and then he pushes his tongue in once more. It _is_ a weird feeling, but not necessarily a bad one. Dean's experimented with fingering himself on an occasion or two in the past, but it's a totally different experience to feel the puff of damp, heated breaths against him, feel the unpredictable motion of Cas's tongue as it writhes and pulsates within him, and holy crap, that's incredibly dirty and far more arousing than he thought it would be. The sensation is inherently teasing, breaching him only shallowly, and he finds himself wanting to press back into the sensation and push Cas deeper, because he needs more.

While he works him open with his tongue, Cas slips a hand underneath him to tug at his dick. His rhythm is a little disjointed, but nonetheless, within a few minutes Dean's toes are curling and he's fighting to suppress some decidedly embarrassing moaning, because there's no way in hell Dean's going to let himself fall apart with just _this._

That Cas would have no qualms or hesitation whatsoever to do this shocks Dean, but he supposes it really shouldn't, based on his own earlier observations of Cas's behavior. But still, it's bolder than he expected. They may have some fundamental connection that has caused them to be unable to let each other go, and they may have already expressed a mutual desire to pursue something with each other, but the cold, hard fact remains that, at this point, they are still little more than strangers. This is not an act a person is typically willing to engage in until a certain level of comfort and familiarity is reached. Dean can't decide if Cas is just unaware of that little subtlety, or if he inexplicably, impossibly already feels that comfortable with Dean. Or maybe Cas just has a bit of a kinky side, just waiting to be unleashed.

In any case, Dean has just about reached his limit with the teasing. He needs more _pronto._ "More, Cas. Gimme more," he manages to articulate in a breathy voice he hardly recognizes as his own. With a final flick of his tongue, Cas capitulates, and he detours to plant a kiss against Dean's tailbone before he reaches for the bottle of lube that he had set on the hearth earlier. Dean hears the snap of the cap being opened, and he braces for the feeling of a slick finger against his already wet hole. It's not as cold as he had anticipated, the fire having done its part to warm the liquid to a more comfortable temperature, and as Cas carefully slips a finger inside, Dean thinks this might not be so bad.

After waiting for the twitch of Dean's muscles to cease, signifying his adjustment to the intrusion, Cas begins to caress his walls, applying slow but firm pressure to ease Dean's muscles into relaxing. Dean's grateful Cas keeps his nails neat and blunt, because there's no discomfort; even when he slides his finger nearly out to seamlessly add a second finger on the inward stroke, it burns only inconsequentially.

"You're remarkable, Dean," Cas intones, husky and erotic and worshipful, and Dean really doesn't know what to do with that. He's not remarkable. He's not doing anything remarkable now, for sure—just, you know, _getting his ass fingered_ so he can be fucked, which is hardly something to remark upon. It's more something to keep hidden at all costs. He only manages to grunt dismissively. But Cas—weirdo that he is—pays his skepticism no mind, and instead only whispers, "Truly," like an afterthought rather than a counter. With his free hand, he sweeps his palm along Dean's spine, down his hip, and across the front of his thigh, finally coming to rest with his hand curled around his leg, fingertips tracing shivery circles against the flesh of Dean's inner thigh.

Several minutes and two more fingers later, Dean really is about to shake apart—he can feel the sheen of sweat coating his body, his trembling legs and arms can barely hold him up anymore, and more than he ever thought possible, he craves the presence of more than just fingers inside him. Once again, he wonders where Cas's restraint is coming from; if Dean was in Cas's position right now, he's pretty sure he'd have given in long before to the urgency of his own desires and hurried things along. Cas must get some sort of weird fulfillment from the mere act of tending to Dean's needs, even to the neglect of his own. But Dean's thankful regardless, because he has little call to fear that he's going to have to deal with much pain on top of the newness and uncertainty he's already mentally combatting. A renewed surge of affection for this considerate, generous man washes over Dean, and he's more convinced than ever that he hasn't made a mistake in entrusting himself to Cas.

When Cas removes his fingers at last, he immediately instructs, "Lie down on your back. I want to watch you."

Dean gladly obeys, his straining limbs gratified for the respite, and frankly, the side of him facing the fireplace was beginning to get overheated. After all of Cas's…decidedly intimate ministrations, Dean finds it more challenging than before to meet his gaze, but he's not one to back down from a challenge. If Cas looked wrecked before, he's utterly shattered now, the soul of him bleeding through those blue, blue eyes, shining like little nuclear reactors—a dichotomy of pure, unearthly spirit and profoundly flesh-and-blood humanity. And yeah, okay, Dean can admit it, it both steals his breath and warms him to his toes.

Wow, Dean's getting maudlin in his old age, or new role, or whatever. But Cas awakens things in him—desires, thoughts, impulses—that he either thought he had long since smothered or never realized he possessed in the first place.

"Condom?" Cas asks with a little furrow of his brow, suddenly and absurdly seeming almost shy—and there's the Cas Dean first met again, in all his fish-out-of-water glory that's just begging for Dean to tease him. He settles for a fond grin this time.

"Wallet," he says. "Back pocket of my jeans."

Cas scrambles to retrieve the item, and Dean is left with an unfortunate, unoccupied moment in which his mind is free to race unchecked, and a seed of panic germinates in his belly. His trust and confidence in his partner cannot fully save him from the demons of his past. Watching Cas roll the condom on himself (and he's looking at it with that signature tilted head and squinty-eyed thing he does, like it's utterly baffling—what the hell?), Dean realizes he's moments away from getting fucked, and holy crap, is he ready for this? Cas isn't huge, but he's not small either, and what if it _hurts,_ and Dean thinks of all the times his jaw hurt after choking on other men's dicks, and how he'd thought to himself that at least he could somewhat control those situations, but he'd never let himself be taken. And now he's going to let it happen, even though he spent all that time determined never to let himself be violated like that, never to cross that line, even when his customers had begged or offered to pay extra or threatened, but they'd _told_ him it was inevitable, hadn't they? Hadn't they said that he'd always end up like this, on his back with his legs spread, or on his knees with his ass in the air? That one man with the beer belly and the lisp had told him that his full, pretty lips were made to wrap around a man's cock, and his legs were made to wrap around a man's waist as he's mounted and split open, and now it's happening, this is it, this is really happening, he's about to be taken, like the good little whore he is—

"Dean," says Cas's gentle but insistent voice, piercing through the storm in Dean like a ray of conquering sunlight. Dean opens his eyes to see Cas's fathomless blue ones just inches away. Somehow, while Dean was sinking into his sudden onset of panic, Cas moved undetected by Dean, and he now lies stretched along Dean's side, raised on an elbow to look Dean in the face, concern stitched in his brow. He wipes his hand heedlessly on the blanket beneath them, then lays his palm on Dean's cheek—a feather-light touch that is immensely grounding. Dean presses into it and heaves a broken breath. "You're pale and trembling," Cas goes on, more understanding and adoration in his soft, gravelly voice than Dean would have thought possible. "We don't have to do this. You can top, or we can stop entirely. I won't be angry or upset. You need only say the word."

Dean takes a moment to just breathe, to come back to himself—to come back to _Cas._ This is _Cas,_ who's been so gentle and patient tonight, who's watching him now like Dean's the nucleus of his universe. This is not one of those disgusting men Dean consorted with in the past. This is _Cas,_ who actually risked the thing most valuable to him—his own home—in order to save something Dean values, even after Dean hurt him deeply. This is _Cas,_ whom Dean couldn't forget and has dreamed about for days and whom Dean may—Jesus—whom Dean may be in l—son of a bitch—may _really like._ Dean's thought long and hard about this. He's sure about Cas, and he wants this. He's not going to let the demons win. "No," Dean says, adamant, if a little tremulous. "I wanna do this. I want you."

"Dean—" Cas begins, clearly not quite convinced, but Dean cuts him off.

"Cas," he says. "I'm sure." To prove it, he sits up long enough to spot the bottle of lube and make a grab for it. Pouring some in his hand as he lies back down, he reaches over to take Cas in hand and coat him generously in the liquid. Cas shudders at the touch, and his eyes briefly flutter closed, and apparently that's all the convincing he needs. Agilely, he shifts into position between Dean's spread legs, hiking his knees up on his shoulders, and he lines himself up. Dean feels the head of his dick prodding at his entrance, and he twitches in anticipation, but Cas doesn't push in yet. Instead, he takes the time to reestablish eye contact to ensure one final time that Dean is truly okay. His eyes are lust-dark and his breathing heavy, and Dean is certainly not going to prolong his agony any further. "Fuck me, baby," he says.

And then Cas is pushing in, and his brows are knitted endearingly tight and his nostrils are flared with the effort of going slow, but he refuses to drop eye contact, and Dean—and Dean—!

Dean doesn't know how to process the myriad of sensations and emotions that flood him. He's been prepped more than sufficiently, but his recent tension is likely causing him to clench more than he should, so there's a bit of a burn, but it's not bad—it's bearable.  He's twisting the blankets in his fists in a death grip and hissing a string of F-bombs through his teeth just to be safe, which is causing a concerned furrow to appear on Cas's forehead, so Dean gives him a wobbly grin to reassure him, because he's really okay. Being filled by Cas's rock-hard dick is certainly something unlike anything else he's ever experienced, and Dean thinks that once he adjusts, it may be pleasant.

But beyond the physical is an additional layer of new and different and incredible. Dean's heart is fluttering in a way that he has a hunch has little to do with the act itself and everything to do with the way he feels for this man, this man who's sliding his long-fingered hands behind Dean's knees and bending him in half as he leans closer, fully seated at last, looking at Dean like he's the last, the only thing in the universe he can wrap his fractured mind around.

Somehow, through their joining, it's like he can feel Cas's heart, the core of him, feel the extremity of Cas's feelings for him, and that's something that's never been present in sex for Dean before. It's—well, it's kind of _awesome._ Dean thinks maybe he's been missing the point of sex all along, and—huh—isn't that something.

Cas hasn't started moving yet, obviously trying to collect himself as much as give Dean time to adjust, when he says something that makes the world around Dean wheel and spin. "You're my first, you know."

Does not compute; commence self-destruction, because seriously— _what?_

"Cas, what are you saying?" Dean manages to ask, because he has to have heard wrong.

"You're my first," Cas repeats.

"First," Dean says. "Like, _first_  first, like, before I came along, you were still taming unicorns."

"Unicorns aren't real, Dean," Cas says seriously. "I was a virgin."

Well, there it is. You can't get much clearer than that. Cas was a virgin at…however old he is (Dean's going to have to remember to ask at some point), and he gave his first time to _Dean,_  a complete stranger, and seriously? Who waits that long and then just…?

"Oh, God," Dean says, suddenly feeling renewed guilt rush over him. "Last time—that was your _first time,_  your first time _ever,_  and I—"

"Don't," Cas says sternly. "Don't you dare. You're here now, and that's what counts."

"Yeah," says Dean, feeling like more apology is due but not daring to offer it. He still can't wrap his head around this; he hadn't expected it at all, and sure, it's not like he knew, but it sure makes him feel like more of a dick. But Cas just keeps looking at him steadily, and he looks—hell, he looks so _happy_  that Dean isn't able to get far down that self-deprecatory path.

"I knew you didn't have much experience," Dean says at last, after a minute or so of staring, "but I never guessed you had _none._ And, uh, you did a really damn fine job of prepping me. I figured you must have done that at least a time or two."

"I've done it to myself," Cas says bluntly. "Is that so strange?"

"No. No, I just didn't know you'd be into that, since you sort of fell into the role of topping so easily."

"I'm interested in both. You can take me next time, if you're amenable. I think I'd like that."

Dean is _so_ amena-whatever _on board_ with that, and he winks to show his approval. But right now, Dean's the one getting fucked, or he's supposed to be—there's entirely too little fucking going on right now, and that's a problem that needs fixing. Dean has more than adjusted to the feeling of Cas inside him, and he's ready for a little action. He pointedly bucks his hips, driving Cas even deeper.

Immediately, Cas's breathing rate increases and a strained look comes over his face. "Dean, I can't—I—I need," he says, his words choppy and stilted at last as pleasure finally starts to get the best of him. "Probably not going to last very long," he manages to warn, looking a bit sheepish and apologetic.

"No idea how you've held it together this long," Dean says. "Go for it."

Cas goes for it, pulling back and nearly out, then pushing back inside. The first couple strokes are tentative, and he looks to Dean to make sure that he's not in pain.

Dean isn't in pain. In fact, he's getting impatient with Cas walking on eggshells; it's sweet but not necessary. "Harder," he demands.

With a primal growl, Cas lets go and begins thrusting in earnest. Dean's taking a pounding, his knees pressed back near his ears and his body rocking with Cas's motion. If they were in a bed, the headboard would be beating a violent racket against the wall; as it is, Dean's body is slipping back on the blankets by tiny increments with each thrust.

Cas releases his legs in favor of bracing himself on the heels of his hands, giving him better leverage, so Dean hooks his ankles at the small of Cas's back and hangs on. The slight change in position allows Cas to lean closer, and Dean wraps his arms around Cas's shoulders as Cas strains upward for a kiss—lacking in finesse and little more than an exchange of breath and saliva, vulgar and tender all at once, somehow, but perfect.

The blunt pressure inside him is actually pretty awesome, Dean decides, but he honestly doesn't know if he could get off on that alone. His erection had flagged as a result of his brief panic attack, but his dick has perked up again, now that he's started to enjoy the feeling of being opened wide and slammed into. He slides a hand off Cas's shoulder and reaches between them to jack himself, mimicking Cas's already erratic rhythm. And oh yeah—that's good. That's just what he needed; the delicious contrast of forceful pounding inside and squeezing friction out has quickly piqued his arousal. It would be even better if it was Cas's hand around his dick, but hey, one thing at a time. For a beginner, Dean figures Cas is doing well just not having come yet, and he certainly doesn't expect multitasking out of the guy at this stage. Hey, he's even managing to spare an ounce of attention for technique, which is pretty impressive. Imagine what a pro he'll be at this given a little practice. Hell _yes,_ count Dean in to be his guinea pig, or teacher, or maybe a little of both. Whatever—Dean's on board with any and all of it.

Just then Cas nails him at an angle that makes Dean see stars—proverbial _and_ literal stars, and an involuntary, strangled shout escapes his throat. "Fuck," he gasps. "Holy _fuck,_ Cas, do that again." Cas tries but can't quite replicate the angle, and Dean can tell he's nearly on the edge anyway. Oh, well—they can work on that later. But Dean takes back everything he thought about not getting off on being fucked alone, because after that, he's certain he could come pretty damn hard from having his prostate pummeled repeatedly.

Cas is close, so close. Dean can see it in the way sweat beads on his forehead, feel it in the way his muscles tremble, hear it in the way his ragged breaths echo his hammering heartbeat. But Cas stops. Exercising every bit of control in his possession, he stops, and he looks down at Dean. When their eyes meet, the mood changes, and Dean thinks he could spend days lost at sea in Cas's eyes and not run out of emotion therein to keep him afloat. Cas is funny like that—he doesn't show a wide spectrum of emotion on his face, but it's all right there, if you just know where to look—in the depths of those blue spheres that seem to contain all the vastness of space and time, and what a wonder it is, daunting, soothing, bolstering, exhilarating, when it's all focused on you!

"Dean," Cas murmurs, and he leans down to kiss him, slow and sweet and gentle in absolute defiance of their physical states. Dean returns the kiss, unsure of what to say and not wanting to shatter the spell, so he remains silent. "You came back to me," Cas says against his lips.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"Thank you."

Dean just throws his arms around him and crushes him tight against his chest, because what do you say in the face of someone's consuming gratitude for your mere presence in his life?  If Dean's eyes burn a little, it's totally just the smoke from the fire, and—yeah, okay.  Who is he fooling?

It's all there—every feeling that had so terrified Dean before—all that and more. This time it doesn't terrify him. This time he finds it new and wonderful and beautiful. This time it makes him want to believe in forever.

Bodily, Dean urges Cas to move, and Cas does, snapping his hips forward once, twice, three times. "Just let go, baby," Dean mutters as he strokes Cas's hair. "Come for me, Cas."

With one final thrust, Cas shoves himself impossibly deeper and finishes inside him, scrabbling clawed hands in the blankets and muffling his raw cries against Dean's skin, and Dean holds him through it. Dean hasn't come yet but finds he doesn't really care as he listens to Cas pant and feels his heartbeat drum a slowing tempo.

It's too early to say "I love you," but for the first time in his life, Dean wants to say it. He doesn't, and he doesn't know if he'll manage to say it even when it's been a more appropriate length of time, because those words are hard to say, but he _thinks_ it.

_I love you._

Cas regains his faculties enough to lift his head for a clumsy, sloppy kiss, and he seems to realize Dean's urgent state then, because he reaches a shaky hand between them and wraps it around Dean's throbbing dick. His hand twists and tugs with approximately the vigor of a dishrag, but Dean's so close it hardly matters. A few thrusts into Cas's lax hand are all it takes and he's tumbling off the edge, dappling their stomachs with his come.

As he collapses back and finds his way down from the heights, Cas tends to their more pressing needs: removing the condom and tossing it aside and cleaning them both off with a corner of the poor, ruined blanket. He makes quick work of these, then lies down beside Dean again.

For all his assertive dominance during sex, Cas in afterglow mode is needy and clingy. He entangles their legs and burrows himself under Dean's arm, resting his head on Dean's chest just like he did the last time. Throwing one arm around Dean's ribs, he worms his other arm underneath Dean in just the right way to be completely uncomfortable, but Dean doesn't have the heart to tell him to move it. He keeps nuzzling and wriggling for quite a few seconds more, as though he can get closer than he already is, which is pretty much impossible.

"You're an octopus," Dean accuses.

Cas hums noncommittally and adjusts their legs, finding a way to knot them even more hopelessly.

Dean shakes his head in fond exasperation.

"I'm not going to sleep this time," Cas mumbles into Dean's skin, his eyes already shut.

Dean smiles. "You can if you want, babe. I swear I'm not going anywhere this time."

And he's not—he's really not, because he thinks he might have found just where he belongs. He presses a kiss into Cas's wild hair and tightens his arms around him, content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left to go, guys. Just FYI, I'm going to do my best to get it out on time, but I'm leaving for Vegas next Monday evening for a week (yes, for VegasCon—holy crap am I excited!), so I'm going to be spending most of my weekend (and probably much of my week) packing and fretting about packing. I haven't flown in a long time, plus it's a con, and it's packing for a week. So we'll see what I can manage. The chapter will, in all likelihood, be a bit shorter than these last couple anyway, so maybe I'll be lucky and finish early.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was by the skin of my teeth, but I managed to get the chapter out for you guys before going out of town. Enjoy!
> 
> Art by the talented [purgatoryjar](http://purgatoryjar.tumblr.com/).

They don't sleep—not really. Sure, they doze a little, but it's still early, and after a brief while of drifting in and out of consciousness in the warmth of the still-blazing fire, they get something of a second wind and decide to get up.

They're too warm and content to straighten up the room much, but Cas carts off the (now rather sticky) top blanket to the laundry room and properly disposes of the used condom, and Dean picks up their clothes and lays them on one end of the couch.

Both seriously need showers, so Dean drags a protesting Cas (who seems far more interested in cuddling on the couch) along with the enticement of showering together, which Cas begrudgingly agrees is an acceptable alternative. Dean has to fend off a now handsy Cas (who seems to have regained all his energy) so they don't run out of hot water, and they take longer than strictly necessary despite his efforts because hey, Dean's only human.

They've hardly finished drying themselves when Cas marches Dean back to the living room, shoves his naked ass down on the couch, and curls up next to him, throwing a blanket over them. He turns the TV on and they flip for a few minutes; after a while of just having the local channels, Dean is excited by the options. One channel is playing _Dirty Dancing,_ and Cas brightens. Dean thinks he may have discovered a favorite, so he figures he can settle. Hey, it's Swayze, and Jennifer Grey isn't exactly hard on the eyes, but most of all, it makes Cas happy.

In the end, their selection hardly mattered, because they haven't watched more than ten minutes of the movie before Cas begins nibbling Dean's neck, and pretty soon they're full-on making out and not paying the TV the slightest mind. There's no urgency to their kisses at first, and for a while they're content to simply explore each other's mouths. It's nice, Dean thinks, just kissing for the sake of kissing. He hasn't really done that since he was, oh, thirteen or fourteen, when it was all still new and exciting, and even then he always had ulterior motives. In recent years, he would only be sticking around like this post-sex if there was a chance for more, but that's not why he's still here now. He likes that he can just enjoy being with Cas like this, that if it leads somewhere else, great, but if not, he doesn't have to write it off as a miss. They'll have opportunities later. His own lack of self-confidence as well as the protective pessimism he's built up over the years whisper to him that it might not last, so he shouldn't get too comfortable, but even those voices of negativity can't deny that for now, they've got a tomorrow together.

Eventually Cas's hands do start to creep toward the jackpot, and Dean ends up straddling Cas's lap as their make-out session turns decidedly dirtier. Cas is jacking Dean off against his stomach with one hand while the other cups Dean's ass, and Dean thinks with a grin that he may have created a monster.

All the same, Dean isn't exactly opposed to round two himself, and he's wishing he had brought another condom when he realizes that Cas has no history other than him, and he tested clean, so really, it's not much of a risk, right? Sure, caution would dictate that they use protection until they've both been tested and can show each other the results and not go on each other's words alone, but screw that. Cas says he was a virgin, and that's good enough for Dean. Dean's done stupider things in his life. He'll let Cas make that call.

Dean does want to take advantage of Cas's offer to bottom in the future, but he decides that between them, they've had enough firsts for one night. He scrambles off Cas's lap and hunts down the lube, but before he hands it over, he points out their lack of protective supplies and the dilemma created thereby. Clearly, Cas feels the same way as Dean, because he doesn't spare an ounce of concern for the issue and instead seizes the bottle, pulling Dean back into his lap.

Dean's still loose from before, so it's not long before he's sinking down on Cas's cock, now relishing the sensation of being filled. Taking charge, he rides Cas hard and fast while Cas just grips his calves and tries not to come too soon—a venture in which he's only minimally successful. The sex earlier must have expended the majority of Cas's daily allotment of control. Dean is privately relieved, because he's apparently not in shape enough to keep it up for much longer. His thighs are burning like fire by the end, and he's sure as hell going to be sore in the morning, but it's so worth it to see Cas fall apart under him. Cas collapses back against the pillows, utterly spent, so Dean quickly takes care of himself, painting Cas's chest with his come.

Well, so much for them being shower-fresh.

Oh, well—they'll just have to shower again in the morning. Dean doesn't think Cas will be able to stay standing long enough to shower, and his own energy levels aren't a whole lot better. Dean rises, wincing at the squelchy wetness he's suddenly very aware of trickling down his thigh, and yeah, it feels a little gross. He's not sure if he's so keen on that little detail. Ignoring it for now, he pulls Cas up and steers him to the bathroom.

Patient and obedient, Cas leans against the counter while Dean cleans them up, a silly, sleepy little smile on his face. He insists on brushing his teeth and Dean doing the same (he produces a spare toothbrush to that end), and he's nodding off while doing it (to Dean's private amusement), but he manages.

Finally, they climb into bed, after Dean runs back to the living room to get the comforter, which had not been spared in Cas's earlier blanket collection. Cas stays awake long enough to twine himself around Dean again, and the moment he's comfortable (and Dean slightly less so), he's asleep. Will they always sleep so close, Dean wonders? Always—there's a word that a couple weeks ago Dean never would have thought he'd be using of himself and someone he's sharing a bed with.

He tries to shift to get more comfortable—carefully, so he doesn't wake Cas up, but he's pretty much paralyzed with Mr. Octopus all over him. In the future, he's going to have to teach Cas the joys of spooning, but for now, he'll just have to deal with it. Cas's hot breath puffs damply against Dean's skin, and he's snoring slightly—too soft and melodious to be truly annoying, and Dean thinks that being tangled up with Cas isn't such a bad problem to have, really.

 

Light is streaming through the blinds they forgot to close when Dean wakes. The usual disorientation at waking up in a strange place befuddles Dean for a moment, but then he senses the warmth of the body beside him, and he remembers. Cas sleeps still, wandering some dream, judging by the veiled flitting of his eyes under their lids. He's drifted away from Dean in the night but only slightly, and he's lying on his side, curled in toward Dean with his face mashed into the pillows; they're lying near enough still that they're taking up less than half the space in Cas's king-sized bed. Aureate light from the windows behind Cas casts his face in shadows but refracts off the edges of his hair, giving him a beatific, refulgent halo—imagery ironically befitting the date—and…damn. He's kind of beautiful, Dean thinks, squashed face and half open mouth and all.

Dean wants to kiss him but doesn't want to wake him, so he slips gingerly out of bed and pads off to the bathroom to hit the head. He spots Cas's blue terry bathrobe hanging on the door, and he pulls it on. It smells like Cas, but then again, _Dean_ probably smells like Cas, Smiling, he takes a deep breath anyway; then, he steals off to the kitchen to see what he can rustle up for breakfast.

On his way, he retrieves his phone from his jeans pocket. It's only a little after 8:30, but he has several missed calls and a couple messages from Sam. He listens to the messages as he investigates the contents of Cas's fridge and pantry. The first is from late last night and features Sam bitching at him about running off "for some hook-up or God knows what" on Christmas Eve, and can he please at least call because Jess is getting worried? _Way to go—using the woman as a weapon already,_ Dean thinks. The second message is from about a half an hour ago, and in it Sam warns him that he'd better not miss Christmas dinner or else, and then Sam finishes by saying, "Seriously, Dean, just let us know you're alive. This is weird even for you."

While he starts the coffee pot, Dean calls Sam back, and he answers on the second ring. "Dean?" he asks, hesitant relief in his voice.

"Hey, Sammy."

"Where the _hell_ are you?" Dean winces at the volume as Sam channels his leftover worry into anger.

"Had something I had to take care of," Dean says vaguely. He doesn't want to do this over the phone.

"Whatever that means! I'm _sure_ it was more important than your family at Christmas," Sam says snidely, but then he sighs. "Look, Dean, just make sure you're home in time for dinner. Jess and I are working hard on the food, and Bobby's coming—"

"Yeah, I know," Dean says, cutting him off. "I'll be home in a couple hours."

"You'd better be," Sam huffs.

"I swear, dude. Jesus." Dean rolls his eyes. "Oh, and Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Set another place for dinner," Dean says, and he hangs up, grinning impishly. He may not want to do this over the phone, but he can't resist leaving Sam with that little mystery. Let 'em stew in their juices for a while.

His phone rings again within seconds of him hanging up, but he ignores it, instead pulling the ingredients for omelets and bacon out of the fridge. He doesn't know what Cas likes in an omelet, but since Cas lives alone and doesn't often have visitors, Dean figures he's pretty safe with whatever he finds.

The bacon is popping and sizzling in its pan, and he's whisking the eggs when he hears Cas's gravelly voice waft faintly from the bedroom. "Dean?" he says, voice thick with sleep, then louder and panicked, "Dean?" Dean hears muffled sounds of frantic motion followed by the heavy thud of hurried footfalls, and then Cas appears at the end of the hall, hair sticking out in every possible direction, stark naked, chest heaving. He skids to a stop when he sees Dean standing in the kitchen, and his entire body slumps with relief.

"Hey," Dean says, feeling guilty for having alarmed Cas but unable to suppress the upward twitch of the corner of his mouth at the sight of Cas standing there in nothing but his dignity (and even that's debatable). Undeniably, Dean's heart races and fills his chest with a fluttering warmth, and that might have been scary before, but today he's going to revel in it. So what if he's crazy about the guy?

"I thought for a moment that you'd left," Cas says at last, weakly.

Sympathy wins out then, and Dean sets the bowl on the counter and walks over to Cas. The poor guy has really ridden an emotional roller coaster lately, thanks to Dean, so Dean gathers his shaking form in his arms and says, "Still here."

Cas melts into him, clutching tight like he needs the physical reassurance of Dean's presence until he's regained his composure. The moment Dean feels the trembling in his limbs subside, Cas pulls back and manhandles him into a possessive kiss. "Maybe I should tie you up so you can't go anywhere next time," he rumbles in Dean's ear.

Well. A shiver gallops down Dean's spine. Nothing in Cas's tone makes Dean think he's too serious with his threat, but the idea is out there all the same. Dean is…less opposed to the concept than he expected to be, but it's more than he can handle considering right now. "Little early in the morning to be tying people up, don't you think?" he asks with a laugh, and it's painfully obvious that the humor is only deflection.

"I wasn't serious," Cas assures him, but he gives him a funny look like he sees right through to Dean's thoughts. "But if that's something you ever think you'd like to try…."

"I don't know," Dean says hurriedly, eager to keep the personal revelations to a minimum for the present. "But right now, the bacon's probably getting burnt to a crisp." He wriggles out of Cas's arms and dashes to rescue their breakfast. "There's coffee," he calls over his shoulder. "Sorry I took your robe. You want it back?"

"No, I have a spare," Cas says, but he makes no move to go get it. Instead, he comes up behind Dean as he's taking the bacon out of the pan and wraps his arms around Dean's waist. "You made breakfast."

"Working on it. Seriously, Cas, go put a robe on or something. You're really distracting like that. What do you want in your omelet, by the way?"

"Ham, cheese, peppers, and onions." Cas turns him around then and captures his lips in a quick but heated kiss. "You're wonderful." He darts away while Dean is still reeling from the kiss and trying not to let Cas's omelet order float out of his head.

 

Conversation over breakfast feels different than it had before, but it's a good different. Dean thinks he could get used to the rhythm between them; it's natural and vital and every bit as satisfying as Dean's vague visions of how life with someone at his side might be. Even their silences were comfortable before, but now there's more of a spark in them; it was always there, he supposes, but it's different now in that it's exponentially greater. They merely have to look up and catch each other's eyes, and Dean instantly experiences a thrill of excitement dancing through his insides like he hasn't felt with anyone since he was an inexperienced kid, and this is so much more intense than it ever was then.

Cas asks if he might come visit the garage and see Dean at work one Saturday soon, promising to try his utmost not to be a distraction or in the way, and Dean is more than happy to grant permission. After all, his business owes its survival to Cas, and Dean could never deny Cas the opportunity to see in person what he'd bet on. He just hopes Cas will like what he sees.

After cleaning up, Dean decides they have a few minutes they can spare, so he drags Cas off to the bedroom for a quickie. Hey, Dean's a fine young specimen of virile manhood, thank you very much, and being with Cas may be about something more than sex, but Dean can't help it if he's horny—Cas affects him like that. And considering Cas jumped on the opportunity like white on rice, the effect is a mutual one. Dean discovers with relief that there's only the slightest sense of brief and distant panic this time as he swallows Cas down, and it's easily ignored. Cas returns the favor, and then they shower and get ready. Cas's jeans wouldn't fit Dean, but he does borrow some clean boxers before putting on his clothes from the day before.

It's going on 11:00 when they lock the door and head toward the restaurant from last night. They find the pillows right where they had dropped them, much to Cas's delight. He's lucky it's Christmas; any other day of the year, the pillows likely would have been long gone. Because of the bus's limited holiday schedule (which Cas with his ridiculously good memory recalls in detail), they don't have time to go back by Cas's house to drop off the pillows, so they head straight to the station from there.

Before Dean knows it, they're walking up the stairs in Dean's apartment building, and nervousness hits him like a freight train. In a mere couple minutes, he's going to be—ugh—coming out to his family (son of a bitch, he hates that term, and he never thought he'd be applying it to himself), and there's no backing out now. Is he ready for this? Are they moving too fast? Will his family actually be supportive, or has he misjudged them? Will they like Cas?

As they come to a stop in front of Dean's door and Dean digs for his key, a sideways glance at the man standing straight and still at his side reveals that for all his calm body language, Cas is at least as nervous as Dean. His stance is more akin to the disciplined readiness before a battle than to any natural serenity of mind. Somehow, knowing Cas is anxious too calms Dean.

"Come here," he says and reels Cas in by the arms. Cas nuzzles his face into the crook of Dean's neck and takes a deep breath, and Dean feels some of the tension drain out of his form. Oddly enough, the physical contact reassures Dean as well, and he nudges Cas's head back up so he can steal a quick and fortifying kiss. "It's gonna be fine," he says firmly. "You ready?"

Cas meets Dean's gaze and gives a single, sharp nod, soldier-like. Dean grins in spite of himself, then fits the key in the lock and opens the door.

The apartment is tiny, so the opening of the door is all that's needed to announce their arrival. Instantly, three sets of eyes zero in on them, and three sets of eyebrows rise to three hairlines. The expressions of the room's occupants are only identical for a couple moments, and then they morph into individualized reactions. Bobby's face rapidly regains neutrality but for a slight pursing of his lips—disapproval of the possible melodrama to follow, most likely. Humor settles on Jess's lips, and she smirks at him knowingly, and isn't that Dean's luck—having a smart-ass little brother wasn't enough, so the universe blessed him with a smart-ass sister-in-law who has a healthy supply of woman's intuition to top it off.

Sam's face—well, it's actually pretty funny. A hundred different thoughts pass through his mind like the flashing symbols on a slot machine, and Dean can see every one plain as day. His expression finally comes to rest on something like incredulity, like he figures that he must have been mistaken in his assumption that Dean's mystery guest is a romantic interest. Some innate big-brotherly impulse kicks in, and Dean thinks it will be fun to take Sam down a notch and prove he doesn't know _everything_ about Dean.

"Hey, guys. This is…." Dean starts, but he trails off.

What are they to each other? Are they boyfriends? Dean kind of hates the word (at least when it's two men), thinks it sounds _really freaking gay—_ but, well. Plus, it's the only word that implies the exclusivity that Dean is shocked to find he wants. It should be terrifying, but somehow…it's simply not. Yes, Dean supposes, boyfriend is the word.

But how will Sam react to that, and Jess, and Bobby? How will _Cas_ react to that? They haven't discussed it in so many words. Is it too presumptuous of Dean to say it without asking properly first?

Screw it. Dean figures he'll go in guns blazing—that is, after all, the Winchester Way. If Sam or Bobby or Jess has a problem with it, they can freakin' deal. The only one that matters here is Cas.

With every bit of confidence he can muster, Dean says, "This is my boyfriend, Castiel Novak. Cas, this is Sam, Jess, and Bobby."

Sam's eyes widen to a comical, cartoonish degree, but then Jess elbows him, and Dean is relieved to find that despite still being obviously flustered, a wide smile breaks out onto Sam's face, and there's even a twinkle of amusement in his eyes (for which Dean will kick his ass later). Jess makes a pleased sound and grins too—sincerely this time, with none of the needling smugness of before, and Bobby huffs, but that's as good as a blessing from him.

But Dean has only limited attention to spare for them, because it's far more important to see Cas's reaction. Their eyes meet, and Dean can't look away. It's a thing that just seems to happen with them on a stupidly frequent basis, and it should be weird as hell, but somehow it's just not. There's only the barest hint of a smile on Cas's face, but his eyes are shining, those damn blue eyes, like they're miniature moons and Dean's the freaking sun or something. It takes Bobby clearing his throat to shake them out of it, and then Cas extends his hand to each in turn.

Sam, being the nosy bastard he is, immediately starts grilling Cas, asking his age—and oh god, what if he's forty or something (he's not)—and what he does for a living and a dozen other questions of varying relevance, and soon Bobby and Jess join the fray. Dean looks to Cas to be sure that his family isn't scaring his…well, _boyfriend_ off (okay, so that's going to take a little getting used to), but Cas answers everything with no apparent reservations. Satisfied, Dean leaves them to it for a minute (still keeping an ear to the conversation, since a few of Cas's answers are new information for Dean as well) as he looks around the room.

It really looks like Christmas—the tree glows from the corner, casting everything in the room in a festive light, and a pile of presents rests underneath, some with very sketchy wrapping jobs, but hey, it gives them character. The whole room has been rearranged—the love seat has been shifted backwards, and the little table and its two chairs have been moved in front of the sofa, and there's a third chair that Dean recognizes as the one from his office at work. Someone must have made a run when they heard there was going to be an additional person, since there's not another chair in the whole tiny apartment.

Various dishes and pots and pans clutter the stove and the counter and the table, and Dean steps away from the others to investigate. It's way more food than any five people have any business eating, but maybe Sam and Jess figured the brothers have quite a few missed Christmases to make up for, and Dean won't ever say no to leftovers when they're good food like this. There's a turkey in the oven, a tin foil–covered green bean casserole on the counter, gravy and mashed potatoes on the stove, and an assortment of other sides scattered around. For dessert, Dean sees a tin containing the cookies Jess was baking when he left yesterday, and there's some sort of fancy-looking cake, and…that's it.

"Wait a sec," Dean interrupts loudly, because this might be a crisis. "Jess, where's the pie?"

"Didn't I tell you?" Jess says. "I made cake instead."

"What?" Dean exclaims, gearing up for true outrage.

"Pie's in the fridge, you ungrateful bastard. Remind me again why I do anything for you."

"Because I'm awesome," Dean says. Freakin' Jess. She really had him going for a minute there, and you just don't joke about pie.

Jess snorts. "I hate to burst Castiel's bubble here, because he looks like he's been drinking the Kool-Aid, but you're delusional, Winchester."

"I haven't drunk Kool-Aid since I was a small child," Cas clarifies, missing the reference by a mile as usual, and there's a peevish edge to his voice as he continues. "And I'm afraid you're mistaken. Dean is indeed 'awesome.' Perhaps you just don't know him very well yet."

It's just so absurd and, well, _Cas-like—_ Cas taking Jess's good-natured banter seriously and getting offended on Dean's behalf, with cheesy air-quotes and everything, and then coming to his defense by suggesting that Jess doesn't know Dean well when he himself has known Dean for a significantly shorter time. Dean can't help it—he bursts out laughing. God, he's crazy about this ridiculous man.

Sam and Bobby display a little more tact and keep silent, but their mouths twitch at the corners. Jess just gapes, processing that she was just on the receiving end of a very polite—and misaimed—telling-off. Cas's confused frown grows deeper as the silence, broken only by Dean's continued laughter, wears on, and he finally looks to Dean with a wild-eyed expression as though to say, _What am I missing?_

Dean takes pity on him and says, "Cas, Jess was only teasing. She knows I'm awesome."

Jess huffs, but she doesn't deny Dean's alleged awesomeness again. "I _was_ only teasing, Castiel," she assures him, and then she finally gives in to the humor of the situation and chuckles. "Where did you find this one, Dean? He's precious."

Ducking his head, Cas looks away in embarrassment at his faux pas, and, Dean guesses, also feeling a little patronized—he knows Jess was just teasing Cas, which means she likes him, but Cas doesn't necessarily know this. But after a moment, Cas has apparently talked himself out of any personal offense, and he looks back to Jess with a small smile. "Please, call me Cas," he says congenially. "Dean and I met on the bus a couple weeks ago. He fell asleep on my shoulder."

Well, the little bastard. Now it's Dean's turn to be embarrassed as his family laughs at that little bit of information, and Cas has his revenge.  He knows exactly what he's doing—Dean's sure of it, because even though Cas is doing a fine job of keeping a straight face, Dean spots self-satisfied humor hiding in the corners. So Cas has a mischievous side after all.

Apparently reaching his socializing limit, Bobby finally makes an exit from their little knotted group to plop down on the couch and turn the TV on. Sam starts shuffling around, antsy, and after an exchanged look with Jess, she says (in a classic move that isn't even slightly subtle), "Cas, would you mind helping me finish in the kitchen?"

Immediately, Sam catches Dean's eye and nods in the direction of Dean's bedroom. Dean knows what that means: His brother wants to have a Talk. Well, it was inevitable, and Dean begrudgingly admits he owes Sam this one. But that doesn't mean he has to like it. After a quick look to ensure that Cas is getting along fine helping Jess, Dean reluctantly follows Sam into the bedroom.

Sam shuts the door behind them and then wheels on Dean. "All right, Dean, spill."

"Spill?" Dean echoes, intentionally obtuse, and he looks at Sam like he's nuts. "Nothing to spill, dude. Cas and I are dating. I know you know what that is; you have a fiancée."

"Bite me, Dean. You know what I mean. Look, you know I don't have a problem with Cas being a guy, and he seems nice—a little weird, but nice. But you've got to admit this whole thing is pretty weird. My womanizing, perpetual bachelor of a brother suddenly brings home a _guy_ and says they're dating. It's like my entire image of you has just been turned on its head. Since when do you like men?"

Sam's worked himself into a lather over this, and hey, Dean gets it. It _would_ be pretty weird. You grow up sharing very close space with someone, you think you know him better than anyone else, and suddenly you find out that there's a whole side of him that you had no idea existed. It would be like finding out Sam's a member of the Russian mob or something. Okay, not exactly, but close enough. So yeah, Dean can sympathize, and he decides to be straightforward with his brother now; he owes their relationship that much respect.

"Since a long time," he says. "There was just never any reason for you to know. It was always easier to stick to women. But, uh, then I met Cas, and…."

"And easy wasn't good enough anymore," Sam finishes slowly.

"Yeah, something like that."

"Okay," Sam says, nodding like he deems Dean's answer acceptable, and he sits down on the bed. "I just hope you know what you're doing. I don't want you to get hurt."

"I don't have a freaking clue what I'm doing," Dean admits, sitting beside Sam. "But I know what I want."

"And you want Cas."

"Yeah. Look, Sam. I met Cas, and he was…he was great. Things heated up, and I freaked out, dude. I ran. I ran, and I hurt him. But I couldn't get him out of my head, you know? So I guess I finally came to terms with some stuff, and I, uh, well, I went after him."

"So that's what you were doing yesterday," Sam says, ever the pro at stating the obvious.

"Yeah."

"So you guys have, uh…." Sam wrinkles his nose like a kid convinced kissing gives you cooties, and his meaning is clear. And why the hell does he need to know that, anyway, the nosy little bitch?

"Yes, yes we have, and I swear to God, Sam, if you ask me how it was, I will ice your ass."

Sam holds up his hands. "Dude, I really don't want to know," he hurriedly says. "It's just…weird. I mean, just because it's you, not because…. I'm just trying not to think about it, okay?"

"Well, try harder," Dean says, but he can't help the smile that spreads across his face in gratitude and love for his understanding, accepting little brother. Not everyone is so lucky.

"I've never seen you like this, Dean," Sam says, smiling too but still looking incredulous. "You're serious about him, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah, I am. I mean, he might be sick of me in a week, but—"

"Seriously?" Sam interrupts with a dismissive snort, and he elbows Dean. "Have you seen the way he looks at you? He is so far gone."

Dean rubs his arm where Sam's bony elbow jabbed it, reflexively rather than out of any real pain. "Yeah," he agrees, because he can't reasonably deny it. _You don't know the half of it,_ he thinks, but he doesn't say it, determined to honor his promise to Cas and keep the loan a secret. "All right, enough of that." He stands, effectively putting an end to the discussion. He has his limits, after all, and he's had more than enough serious talks in the last couple weeks to last him years. "I'd better go rescue my boyfriend from your terror of a fiancée."

"You'd better watch it now, Dean," Sam says, following him out the door. "You pick on my woman, and your man is fair game."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean waves him off.

Just as Dean is walking through the hallway doorframe on his way back to the living room, Cas almost runs into him, likely having been sent to retrieve the brothers for dinner. They do one of those awkward little dances you do when you're passing someone in a narrow space and you don't know to which side to step, and finally Sam pushes past, annoyed at the road block.

"Damn, I should have bought that mistletoe after all," Jess laments. "That was the perfect opportunity right there."

Dean could react to that in one of two ways: He could let it get to him and be embarrassed, or he could turn the tables and embarrass everyone else. Screw it—he's in a good mood, so he's up for the challenge. "You saying you want a show, Jess?" he asks, and before she can answer, he catches Cas around the waist, tugs him close, and presses their lips together. If he throws in a little tongue action, it's just icing on the cake.

"Really, Dean?" Sam says in that prissy voice he gets when Dean is doing something Sam finds disgusting. "Is that necessary?"

"One hundred percent," Dean says, then indulges in one more intentionally noisy kiss just to be contrary, because yes, Dean can be an asshole when he wants to be. Satisfied that he's sufficiently traumatized his little brother, he lets go of Cas (who's looking a little dazed), and they both head toward the table where everyone else is already seated.

"You're walking kinda funny there, Winchester," Jess says in retaliation for his little exhibition, because apparently it's _on._

Dean stops in his tracks, his hand hovering over the back of his chair.

"Jess!" Sam exclaims, scandalized, just as Dean says, "Shut up!" and turns red, and Cas turns red, and Bobby turns red, which would actually be pretty funny under other circumstances.

Looking back and forth between Dean and Cas and observing their incriminating reactions, Sam mutters, "I did _not_  need to know that."

"You got any family, Cas?" Bobby asks, pointedly changing the subject. Cas is more than happy to take advantage of the segue, and he plunges into a rundown of his family situation.

Everyone digs into dinner with relish, and in no time there's laughter and smiles and general good cheer all around, and Dean thinks, _This is good._

He's proud of himself. He's made significant progress in several areas of his life in a very short span of time, and as a result, several wonderful things have happened that a few weeks ago he would never have thought were even possibilities. Yes, today is a milestone, and considering this is the happiest he remembers being in a very long time—if indeed ever—he hopes it's the first of many.

He sees the possibilities of the future in a sudden moment of clarity. Dean will move in with Cas at some point, maybe in a matter of years, maybe in a matter of weeks, but inevitably. They'll watch stupid television melodramas together, and they'll fight about stupid crap, and Dean will introduce Cas to Zeppelin and Star Trek and s'mores and driving, and Cas will burn the chicken, and Dean will get drunk and embarrass Cas and then bring him breakfast in bed the next morning despite his hangover, and Dean will build a garage at the end of the driveway for his Baby, and they'll get on each other's last nerves and go on stupid, sappy dates and have tons of fantastic sex. And maybe one day they'll have a kid or a goldfish or something, and maybe there will even be rings; Dean doesn't know and he doesn't think he cares right now, because all that matters is getting to keep Cas by his side, come what may.

Dean knows he's getting way ahead of himself and he's gonna have to turn in his man card any minute now, but you know, whatever. Maybe that's okay.

Maybe…maybe it's okay to want something like that for himself.

Christmas is the time that Christians everywhere celebrate as the birth of their Savior, but Dean has never felt any salvation in the season. It's always been cold and empty and brought him no solace or second chances. This year, he was in need of a savior more than ever, in more ways than he even realized at the time.

Who knew that the stranger he met on a bus one snowy evening would be the one to save him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say a quick thank you to all the lovely people who have been following, leaving kudos, and commenting on this story. This is the first chaptered thing I've ever completed, and it's been a great experience, largely thanks to everyone's support. I hope everyone is satisfied with the way it turned out. It certainly grew into something more and bigger than what I originally expected!
> 
> I have a few other ideas I'm mulling over, so please keep an eye out for them! And once again, thank you!
> 
> Much love to you all,  
> Terenë


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